The Angel in Black: The Phantom's Journal
by ladysimone3
Summary: Could the tattered leather book discovered in a rotting plantation house actually be the journal of the Phantom of the Opera? What secrets will it reveal?
1. Chapter 1 A New Beginning

_In 1972 a tattered leather journal was discovered in the rotting ruins of a plantation manor house in South Carolina. The purported author of the journal, one Erik Destler, claimed in its pages to have been the infamous Phantom of the Opera that haunted the Paris Opera House a century before. A series of experts examined the journal, comparing the faded handwriting in the book to that of the few surviving notes supposedly written by the "Opera Ghost" during his reign of terror in Paris. The experts could not confirm or disprove Destler's claim. After the book's authenticity could not be established, it mysteriously disappeared, only to resurface again thirty years later in a small antique bookshop in St. Louis. _

_The mystery continues: did the Phantom survive the tragic fire that destroyed the Paris Opera? If he did, as many believed then and as this journal may or may not prove, is this book the actual record of his later years? We publish it here to let you, gentle reader, be the judge._

**The Angel in Black: The Phantom's Journal**

**A New Beginning**

**February 22, 1872  
****Le Havre, France  
**The dull, gray winter light filtering in from outside cannot begin to dissipate the gloom that permeates my tiny room in this shabby little inn. I had to light several candles to provide enough light just to be able to write in this book. Or, perhaps I have lived long enough in the darkness and now crave the light, any light at all. Who is to say? Either way, the one grime-encrusted window cannot provide enough for me at this moment, so the candles must suffice.

As this is the beginning of my journal, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Erik Destler. The good people of Paris know me as the Opera Ghost, or more formally as the Phantom of the Opera, as I took a great liking to haunting the grand old Paris Opera House for a time. Certain occurrences forced me to leave. I will not go into detail about them here. They are too painful for me to relate, and I will not dredge them up again for the sake of this pitiful book. I remember them all quite well enough, thank you very much.

Suffice it to say that the entire episode ended in tragedy, and I was compelled to leave my underground home of many years.

Most think me dead. That is just as well.

If certain people suspected that I was indeed still alive, they would search heaven and earth until they found me and watched me breathe my last. Only two people know the truth about my existence: Antoinette Giry and her young daughter Meg. They spirited me away from the rubble of the opera house three days after the fire and sequestered me in the garret of the rooming house they then called home.

I remember with alarming clarity the time when the two Giry women found me:

I had given up hope, given up the will to live. My will left me when _she_ left me. With _her_ gone, everything that was beautiful had become grotesque; all that once was hopeful had turned to despair. The chasm of soul-numbing emptiness into which I had fallen was so deep I knew I would never find my way out again.

I slept not, nor did I eat, for normal everyday activities seemed pointless to me since my world had so cruelly fallen apart. I just lay there in my bed, closed my eyes and waited for the Angel of Death to claim me.

Oh, the thrilling comfort of Death's welcoming arms as I floated away into oblivion! Finally my torment would end! Past hope, past care, past help! No more shame, no more heartbreak, no more pain. Just peace, peace at last. Peace that I had never known in life. Ironic, though, that I had to die to find it.

But no, someone pulled me, shook me, tugged me, wanting me to go back. No! Leave me be! I was going where I wanted to be.

But sadly, like all dreams, this one ended, and I fell back into my body and regained consciousness to the harsh world and all its cruelties.

I should have known. It was Giry, shaking me awake, with a tearful Meg standing beside her, wringing her hands. Did the little one cry for me? How touching. I would have been happier, though, if she cried over my corpse.

Under cover of darkness Giry smuggled me into her tenement building and safely situated me in the attic. She brought me food and blankets, and then she cautioned me to keep quiet so I would not be discovered. I suppressed a laugh, smiling sadly at her.

"You are talking to the one who swept through the opera at will, coming and going as he pleased, alerting no one to his presence," I said. "Do you not think I can keep quiet in this hovel of an attic?"

She looked sheepishly away. I wanted to apologise to her for my outburst, but in my current frame of mind I could not find the words.

After Giry was satisfied that I was reasonably settled in, she turned to leave but then stopped as if she had forgotten something.

"I need to tell you," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "I didn't mean for him to find you. I sent him down the old spiral staircase, knowing that it stops at the bottom in a dead end and thinking he would come back up. I was not even aware you had built a trap there. I was trying to stall him. I'm so very sorry; I feel responsible."

"Do not worry yourself, my friend. The blame–for everything–lies entirely on my shoulders," I said to her.

She nodded and once more made to leave, but then turned back to me again and reached into the folds of her cloak. "I almost forgot," she said.

Giry pulled out my white mask and handed it to me. I stood frozen for some seconds before I took it from her. I had nearly forgotten that my misshapen face had been uncovered for all these days, so great was my grief at having lost everything dear to me. I never even noticed that my mask was missing.

"Meg rescued it from your home."

"Thank you," I said quietly. "And please thank her, too."

I slowly slid the mask over my horrid features. I felt a little more like my old self.

She placed her hand on my arm comfortingly. "You did the right thing, you know," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "She will be happy with him."

Those few words pierced my heart like a dagger. She didn't even have to mention her name. Just the intimation of Christine was enough to reopen all those wounds. I tried with all my might, but I could not hold back. A single tear slid down my cheek.

"I know," was all I could manage to croak out as a response.

So much for feeling like my old self.

Giry patted my arm again, smiled her little smile and left.

I remained in that cold, filthy, musty garret for three weeks, making no noise and inducing within myself more and more misery each day. Most of the time I remained on my makeshift bed, mourning my life with Christine that never would be. Every evening Giry would invite me downstairs to dinner, but the thought of any kind of normalcy invading my misery seemed so wrong. I always declined her kind invitation.

At the end of the third week, however, she stormed into the attic like a woman possessed.

"Erik Destler," she said a little too loudly, "You cannot stay up here and wallow in your self pity any longer. You are going to come down and have a proper dinner with Meg and me. I will brook no refusals this time."

She stood in front of me, her arms folded, with that exasperated expression on her face she usually reserved for her young dancers. I knew she would not take no for an answer, so I sighed and told her that I would meet her downstairs shortly. She regarded me for a moment with one raised eyebrow, satisfied that I was being truthful, and left.

"Five minutes," she called to me from the stairs.

# # # # #

Giry smiled as she opened the door to admit me, and Meg rushed to wrap her arms around me. I tried to back away from her, shocked that she would openly show me such affection, but she would not let go. I do not have to write in these pages that I am not accustomed to such displays of affection from anyone.

I always thought that little Giry was the most afraid of "the Phantom" of all the ballet rats. I would sometimes listen in on their nighttime discussions, which invariably would end up centered around the latest ghost gossip, and she always seemed to be the most fearful of all the girls. Seeing her embrace me so warmly, I had to wonder if the fear was all an act. Did she know the truth about me all along? Did she "go along" with the others so as not to give me away?

"Meg, let the poor man breathe," Giry finally said, sensing my discomfort.

Meg finally, albeit reluctantly, released me and led me into the apartment.

The aroma of something delicious teased my nostrils, and I suddenly realised how famished I really was. I had not eaten anything but bread and cheese for the past three weeks, and I truly was ravenous. I was horrified when my stomach rumbled–rather loudly–and betrayed my appetite to my hosts.

"Hungry, are we?" Giry teased me.

"A little," I answered, glaring at her through narrowed eyes.

"Sit down, then. You look like you are about to fall over."

Dinner was a delicious stew. There was very little meat, but the vegetables were generous and Giry turned out to be an excellent cook. I think, looking back on it, anything would have tasted good to me after my diet of the past three weeks. We exchanged polite pleasantries during the meal. Both Giry and Meg carefully avoided certain subjects, and I was grateful to them for that consideration. Giry did tell me that, although the damage to the opera house looked serious, the structure itself was not damaged beyond repair. The owners and managers were planning to restore it. "Bigger and better," their words were. I cringed inwardly to think about exactly what that meant. They hoped to have it up and running again within a year, she told me. I felt relief that my actions did not cause total ruin to the building I loved so much.

Giry, with more than a little pride, told me that she was now employed by Andre and Firmin as a consultant in the restoration project. "I know so much about the building, they felt I could help," she said. Meg, on the other hand, found a job working in a nearby dressmaker's shop until the opera house's reopening. She had spent so much time repairing her own costumes that she had become quite the seamstress. I was pleased that they had both secured temporary incomes until the opera was up and running again.

"What about you?" Meg asked me. "What are you going to do?"

"I do not know, little Meg," I said to the girl-turned-woman who sat across from me. "I know that I cannot stay in Paris. Even remaining in France would be dangerous. But I do not know what I should do."

I knew there was a price on my head. Even though all the Paris newspapers had speculated that I had perished in the fire, and the police had officially given up on their search for me, there were those–including the de Chagny boy–who would not rest until they found either me or my rotting corpse. Hiding me in the garret as she did, Giry took an awful risk herself; aiding and abetting a fugitive carried severe penalties as well.

"Perhaps you could go to England," Giry suggested. "You can speak English fairly well; you could get along quite well there."

"I think even England would be too close for comfort, my friend."

The three of us sat in silence for a long while, staring at the tabletop as if it would give us inspiration.

Then I had an epiphany.

"I will go to America," I said.

"America? But that is... so far away," Giry said quietly.

"Yes, I know, but I believe it is time for me to begin a new life. I must start over. And where better to start a new life than in the New World?"

# # # # #

After packing my meager belongings and bidding _adieu_ to Giry and little Meg (and promising to write after I reached my destination), I embarked upon the journey of a lifetime. A journey that would either change my life forever or be the end of me.

I would accept either.

My journey on foot to the port city of Le Havre was harrowing. I traveled only by night as I knew I was a wanted man. I also stayed well off the main roads. It slowed my pace considerably, but it was necessary. It took me twelve days to reach my destination; I was exhausted, freezing, filthy and famished. I did not want to draw too much attention to myself, so I obtained lodging in a small inn located in one of the less reputable districts of town. Innkeepers there would be less likely to ask questions of their guests, I thought, and I was in no mood to be talkative. I got my room key, stumbled up to my room, fell onto the soft, inviting, downy bed and slept for nearly twelve hours.

When I finally awoke from my deep slumber, my entire body ached from the lumpy, hard, straw mattress upon which I had slept so soundly. I sat up, arching and stretching my back to work out the soreness, groaning each time I moved as a new ache seemed to manifest itself. I suppose any bed at all looks inviting after having slept on the ground for so long. My clothes were not only wrinkled from my having slept in them, but they also carried the grime (and stench) from many days' travel. I desperately needed to bathe and change. Yes, a hot bath–and a good meal–were just what I needed.

After soaking for an eternity in that soul-refreshing hot bath, I made to get ready to go out in the city and make my preparations. I opened one of the two traveling bags I brought with me that carried every possession of mine that survived the fire: a few suits of clothing, some of my music, and a stash of cash. Giry had bravely returned to my home to rescue what she could. I can never repay her for that act of kindness; I never could have returned there myself. But as I reached into the bag, I felt something odd: an object with hard and square edges. I pulled it out and discovered that it was a large, leather-bound book. There was no title on the spine. Curious, I opened it, and a note fell out and landed on the floor at my feet. I set the book on the bed and picked up the note, immediately recognizing Giry's impeccable formal script.

[note tucked in between the pages of the journal]

_Erik:  
__Everything happens for a reason. Perhaps the events at the Opera were destined to occur so that you could move on and begin a new chapter in your life. And that is what you are doing: embarking on a new chapter, a new adventure. I give you this journal so that you may record your new life. I hope with all my heart that you can put all the hurt and loneliness behind you and make your new life something truly wonderful.  
__Your dear friend,  
__Antoinette_

I held the note and the book to my breast for a long moment. "Thank you, Antoinette," I whispered. Then I finished dressing and left the room.

# # # # #

The port city of Le Havre is a busy, bustling, noisy place. Paris is a busy city as well, but its pace is a bit more leisurely. Being a few minutes late for an appointment or a reservation in Paris is not only excused, it is almost expected. In Le Havre, if you are a few minutes late your ship will have sailed without you. There is a sense of urgency here I have never seen or felt before. The steamship whistles are deafening; the smell of burning coal is overpowering; and everything seems to be covered with a fine dusting of soot–even the drifts of snow in the streets. The entire city wears a cast of gray like a warm woolen cloak pulled close about its shoulders.

"Le Havre" in its literal translation means "the port." This city grew up around its port, and I have noticed in the short time I have been here that the vast majority of the city and its inhabitants are geared towards it. It is the city's lifeblood, its primary source of employment and revenue. There are hotels, rooming houses, inns, restaurants, shops; all manner of business catering to those who gather from all across Europe to board those hulking masses of iron and steel and sail away–most of them to make a new life, like me, in America.

I ventured out into this bustling city, careful to keep the hood of my cloak pulled low over my face so as to not attract attention, and made my way down to the passenger ship docks, observing people as they hurried to and fro. They had their appointments to keep, jobs to go to, purchases to make, families to get home to. They all had their goals. I felt a slight pang as I realised that I did not. Except one. I needed to obtain my passage to America.

Not surprisingly, the ticket office was a busy place; it was much too crowded for my comfort, and there was a long line of people before me. I kept my head down as I waited in line, wishing everyone else would just go away. When I finally reached the ticket desk, the man behind the iron-barred window did not even look up at me.

"Where to?" he asked in a monotone.

"America," I said.

He sighed heavily. "Where to in America?"

I thought for a moment, nonplused. I had never even considered that. Where did I want to go? "What city does the next ship to America go to?"

The clerk consulted a chart on his desk. "The _Marietta _sails tomorrow for New York," he said.

I thought for a moment. "No, I do not want to go to New York," I replied.

The clerk looked up at me for the first time. His eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of my masked face beneath the hood of my cloak, then he looked back down at his desk to consult his chart again.

"Philadelphia?" he asked hopefully. I considered this option, then shook my head.

"Boston?" he inquired.

"No."

The little man sighed and consulted his chart once again, clearly becoming irritated with me. "Well, then, the next ship would be the _Independence_, sailing this Saturday for Charleston."

"Charleston? Is that in America?" I had never heard of this place.

"It is in South Carolina."

Charleston. It sounded like a nice place. "Yes. I will go there. First class, please."

Shortly after I purchased my ticket, I returned to my shabby little room at the shabby little inn and began this, my first journal entry. The first of many? The first and the last? Only time will tell.


	2. Chapter 2 Leaving France

**Leaving France  
****March 2  
**I will never understand the custom of standing on the deck of a departing ship, waving handkerchiefs and calling out to those left behind at the dock. You are leaving; they are not. Simple as that. It also makes the ship's deck much too crowded and creates entirely too much noise. I chose to stay in my cabin for the departure since I knew there was no one standing out there on the dock to wish me _bon voyage_. I also seem to have quite an aversion of late to being in the middle of unruly crowds. And, to add insult to injury, it began to snow as the _Independence_ sailed out of the harbor at Le Havre.

I wondered if that was a bad omen for the voyage ahead.

Tiny tugboats guided the ship, ever so slowly, through the harbor. I gazed through the window of my cabin–I believe they are called "portholes" on ships–and saw the sooty, gray city of Le Havre slip away and gray, whitecapped waves take its place. It was snowing heavily by then; some snow had frosted the window glass on the outside, and my breath fogged it from the inside. It was just as well. There wouldn't be much to see now but water.

I wiped off the condensation with my hand and realised that the next time I saw land I would be in a new country, a new world. My world, the only world I had known, was gone and I could never return. I knew this and I accepted it. I also thought of Giry's parting words to me: _This is an opportunity few men ever have, Erik. You can begin your life anew. Forget about the past. Forget about her. Be someone new. Be someone happy. _I vowed to take her words to heart, even though my heart was still somewhere in Paris–with _her_. I would change, I _could_ change; and it would begin as soon as I reached this town called Charl...

_Mon Dieu!_ My ears! My head! Why does the captain feel the need to blast that damned steam whistle? Every soul on this ship will be deaf before the voyage is over if he persists in blowing that infernal whistle every two minutes! I must make a point to send him a friendly note to address this problem. Our ears are meant to listen to much more pleasant sounds than that hellish racket.

Where was I? Oh yes, new beginnings. I will start anew in Charleston. But now I am exhausted, and the bed in this cabin looks much more inviting than that contraption of torture back at the inn. Perhaps I shall just take a short nap...

**March 7  
**Oh, Angel of Death, where are you? Why do you torture me so? I have lain in this bed for three days with this terrible sickness brought on by the violent rolling of the seas, and if I move even one inch I fear I will become violently ill again. Death would be a welcome reprieve to this madness. I cannot eat, no; even the thought of food makes me want to retch. Drinking even the smallest amount of water is the largest of victories. The noise in my head is unbearable! Why does it not stop? My clothing is soaked through with perspiration, my hair clings to my head in damp tendrils and the once crisp bedsheets feel limp and lifeless, as does the man lying on them. If the entire voyage continues in this manner, I honestly do not know how I will survive.

Whatever possessed me to come on this journey? I am certain it will be the end of me...

**March 9  
**The seas finally calmed, and I am happy to report that I am still among the living. I bathed and dressed in the early afternoon and ordered a light meal to be brought to my cabin.

Invigorating sea air would do me a world of good, I thought, so I took a stroll out on the deck before sunset. The cold was bone-chilling, but it was a tonic to my ravaged body. I paused at the deck rail to look out over the vast ocean before me. I had never before seen such an open expanse, and it was mesmerising. The rich salty sea air filled my lungs and invigorated me like no medicine ever could. The sky remained a steely gray, but no snow fell; I was thankful that the sea was calm after its angry rampage of the past several days. My stomach could take no more of that, I thought ruefully.

I walked in solitude on deck as no other passengers dared brave the cold weather. After a time I grew tired (no doubt I was still weak from my recent illness), so I sat in one of the deck chairs to watch the fiery sunset. The heavy cloud cover caused a riot of color across the evening sky, ranging from yellow to orange to red to purple, and I watched in wonder as the darkening sky played its silent opera and ended with a final, color-filled aria.

I was about to return to my cabin when I heard a small sound off in the distance, growing louder, seeming to come toward me. I looked in the direction of the sound and spied a small brightly painted wooden ball, a child's toy, rolling along the deck in my direction. It slowed as it reached me, then stopped. I stared at it, wondering what would cause it do such a thing, until I felt the ship sway with the ocean swells. The ball then began rolling back the way it came. After about thirty seconds it rolled towards me once again, and I leaned over to pick it up. Some irresponsible child obviously left it out here, and I became rather annoyed that anyone taking a stroll–like me–could trip on it. I thought I should give it to someone for safekeeping.

I rose and took two steps when I heard footsteps behind me. Light footsteps, quick footsteps. The footsteps of a child. I turned to find a wide-eyed young boy, not more than six years of age, coming towards me.

"I lost my ball," he said simply. He spoke English, but with an unfamiliar accent. It sounded foreign to my ears. I did know the language but could not speak it fluently.

I hoped the little boy could understand me. "You did?" I asked. "How did you do that?"

"I was playing with it, and it rolled away from me. I couldn't catch it."

"Ah, I see." I sat back down on the deck chair so I was more at his level. I was surprised that he was not afraid of my mask. "And is this your ball?"

I held out my hand. The boy's face lit up when he saw his prized toy.

"My ball! You found it!" He reached out to snatch it from my hand, but I moved it out of his reach.

"Not so quickly. Are you certain that this is yours?"

He nodded.

"And are you certain that there is a ball in my hand?"

He looked up at me quizzically. I held the ball up, waved my other hand over it and the toy disappeared. The boy looked at me, then back at my hand, then back at me. Immediately the expression on his face changed from one of confusion to sadness. Tears formed in his tiny little eyes, and he began crying. I immediately regretted my little magic trick.

"Look here, young man," I said. I held up my hand once more, waved my other hand over it, and made the ball reappear. The boy looked up at me as if I had made a mountain of sweets appear before him.

"Again!" he demanded.

"Timothy!" a woman's voice called from down the deck. "Where are you?"

The boy, who I assumed was this Timothy in question, turned in the direction of the voice. "I'm here, Mama."

The woman appeared in an instant. She was strikingly beautiful, with auburn hair loosely pulled up into a twist and sparkling green eyes.

A tangible pain filled my chest as I gazed upon this woman. No, she did not look in the least way like Christine... _my Christine... _but she was lovely, and any intimation of feminine beauty was bound to tear open those still-fresh wounds in my heart.

A long black cloak floated around her as she approached. The last rays of the setting sun illuminated her face in such a way that she fairly glowed; I hesitate to admit in these pages that for a moment I mistook her for an angel.

"I have been looking for you for ages," she said to the boy. "How many times have I told you not to run off like that?"

She spoke with the same strange accent as the boy. I wondered to myself if all Americans spoke in such a way; I was not sure I liked it. I had to concentrate quite hard to understand them.

I stood as the woman joined the boy and me. She glanced at me briefly, then turned her attention back to the boy. "And you should not be bothering this nice man," she said as her eyes found their way back to me.

Her regard for me was not of fear, nor of revulsion; it seemed to be more of pure curiosity. I was not sure how to take her referring to me as a "nice man," since no one had ever called me that in my life. I wondered if the true meaning of those innocent words was caustic.

"He is not a bother, I assure you," I said to her warily.

"Mama, he made my ball disappear," Timothy exclaimed. The boy turned to me. "Show her!"

She looked over at me with one eyebrow raised. I shrugged. "It is simple sleight of hand," I said.

"Show her!" Timothy demanded again.

The woman sighed. "He won't stop until you do." She flashed me a brilliant smile. Yes, definitely an angel. A married angel, but an angel nevertheless.

I acquiesced and repeated the disappearing ball trick. Timothy clapped, and the woman folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Very impressive," she said with a bit of wonder in her voice. "Can you do any other magic tricks?"

I shrugged again. "A few."

"Do it again!" Timothy demanded.

"Timothy, I'm sure he has much more important things to do," she said to him. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

"You should go inside," I said to her. "It is much too cold out here."

"We have both been sick," she explained, "and he is just bursting with energy. I thought if I let him run around a little..."

"I understand," I replied. "I have had the misfortune as well. That also is why I am out here, for a bit of fresh air."

She peered at my face in the waning light. "You do look pale."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that I always have that pallor.

"Come, we will all go inside and have dinner together."

"Thank you, no; I take my meals in my cabin."

"I insist. Anyone who can hold Timothy's interest for more than three seconds together should be rewarded with a hot meal and lively company."

"I am afraid I must refuse your kind offer. I am quite fatigued..."

"Still, you must eat. Come."

Without even waiting for my answer, she took hold of my arm and steered me in the direction of the dining room.

"I must apologise for my horrendous lack of manners, Madame," I said as the three of us made our way to the dining room. "I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Destler. Erik Destler."

The woman stopped and stared at me as if I had just told her I was the King of Portugal. Then her brilliant smile appeared once again. "Well, Mr. Destler, it appears as if we were destined to meet. My name is Erica. Erica Campbell. It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of someone with the same name as mine–well, very nearly the same name."

# # # # #

Dinner itself left much to be desired–how can one expect true gourmet cuisine on board a ship in the middle of the ocean?–but the conversation truly was first class. Timothy was exceptionally well behaved for a boy of his age, and Madame Campbell and I talked of many things. I do not know when I talked so much in one evening in my entire life. Her accent, however, made it difficult for me to understand her at times, just as I am sure my own heavy French accent caused more than a few problems for her.

I must say that Madame Campbell quite unnerved me early in the meal when I noticed that she stared intently at me during our conversation. My first thought was that she was rudely staring at my mask. _Just like all the others_, I thought. _How could I think anyone would ignore it? _But I soon realised that it wasn't my mask she was looking at, it was my mouth! She evidently was having difficulty understanding me and was watching me speak. I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it, for I was doing the same thing with her! Our accents evidently were proving to be quite a hindrance to our conversation.

Halfway through the meal, she leaned over the table to ask me in a whisper, "Are you really from Paris?"

"_Oui_, madame, truly I am."

"Paris is such a wonderful city. Why would you ever want to leave?"

I thought about that for a moment. What could I tell her without revealing the entire story of my life?

"Bad memories. I need to start fresh." I looked down at my wine glass and swirled the fragrant contents inside for a long moment.

"Ah, a woman," she whispered to me in a conspiratorial tone. She patted my arm. "Say no more; I understand," she said quietly as she sat back in her chair.

"You do?"

"Of course. I was considered quite the catch in my younger days, and unfortunately I let myself get caught by the wrong young man. He broke my heart, and I thought my life was over. But then I met John, and everything was right with the world again."

Were all Americans this forthright and candid about their private lives?

"John?" I asked, puzzled.

"My husband. I can't wait for you to meet him; I am sure you will become fast friends!"

"Pardon me for asking, but why is he not traveling with you?" I didn't want to pry, but it seemed odd that a husband would not be with his wife on such a voyage. Or that he would permit her to converse so openly with a complete stranger..

"Oh, John hates to travel. And besides, the hotel keeps him busy day and night."

"Hotel?" Again, my curiosity got the better of me.

"Oh yes, we own a hotel in Charleston. The Carolinian. It is the finest hotel in town." She thought for a moment. "You will stay there, at least until you find a home of your own." This last statement was not really directed at me; she was more thinking out loud.

"I have made no plans yet concerning my – how do you say – living arrangements..."

"I have made them for you. You will stay at The Carolinian."

It seemed my mind had been made up for me.

At some point during our conversation Timothy's governess, Theresa, came to fetch him. He had fallen asleep at the table while we talked.

"He is very well behaved for such a young child," I said.

"Yes, he is six going on sixty," Erica said with a fond smile. I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but I smiled at her anyway. I think she saw my puzzlement, for she explained herself. "He seems much older than his years."

"Yes, he does," I said, and nodded.

After a long pause, she brightened. "You said you wanted to make a new start. Well, Charleston is definitely the right choice of city for you."

I looked over at her. "Why is that?"

"Why, because the entire city is starting over. After those horrid Yankees practically destroyed it in the war, we are rebuilding, making the new Charleston bigger and better. Starting over, just like you."

War? Oh yes, I did remember hearing about a civil struggle in America, a war between the northern states and the southern states. I couldn't remember which side was victorious.

"And I trust everyone at this table is well this evening?"

We both looked up to see the Captain towering over us. He was lean and tall, about my height, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair under his cap. He smiled down at the two of us.

I turned to him and smiled politely. "Yes, thank you Captain," I said as I began to stand.

"Oh please, don't bother," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder to indicate that I should keep my seat. "Do you mind if I join you for a moment?"

"No, not at all," Erica and I said in unison. We smiled at each other to think that we were of the same mind, and I gestured for the captain to take the seat formerly occupied by young Timothy.

The captain eyed us both. "I must say, I cannot remember when I have seen such a handsome couple on board my ship."

I felt the heat rise instantly in my face at his comment, knowing that I was blushing furiously. Glancing over at Madame Campbell, I saw that her face had reddened considerably as well. "Oh no, Captain, you are mistaken. We are not married," she said to him.

The captain's face fell. "I am so sorry. I saw your wedding ring, and I assumed..."

"It is quite all right, sir," she replied. "Monsieur Destler was good enough to join me for dinner this evening..."

The captain turned his attention over to me. "So, you are the reclusive Destler, hmm?"

"Pardon?"

"The one who takes his meals in his cabin and never ventures outside."

"Yes, I suppose that would be me."

"Well, I am glad to know that you are a real flesh-and-blood human and not some sort of ghost!" he exclaimed, laughing jovially.

I smiled thinly, thinking how close to the truth he actually was.

"So, what do you do, sir?"

"Do?" I was not sure what he meant.

"Yes, your occupation."

My occupation.

What could I tell him of my occupation? I could tell him the truth. I haunt buildings, I extort money, I terrorize young ballerinas just to hear them scream, I wreak havoc on operatic productions, I murder lecherous stagehands, I kidnap innocent young girls and try to seduce them with song...

Sitting there in that elegant dining room, I thought about all the horrid, twisted things I had done; I thought about the demented persona I once displayed to the world. And the worst of it all was that I actually enjoyed it. I took a kind of sick pleasure in terrorizing the inhabitants of the Paris Opera, my reason being that if I could not be happy, then no one else should be either. For a split second I considered confessing all this to the captain and the lovely Madame Campbell.

But no, I made a vow to begin a new life, and I would begin it now.

"I am a composer," I said to the captain.

"A composer? Well, I am impressed, monsieur. Would you have written anything I would be familiar with?"

"I doubt it."

"You must play for us, sir! There is a fine piano in the salon that is rarely used."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," I demurred, "It is late and I must retire."

The captain, I discovered, was not one to take no for an answer. He was much like Antoinette Giry in that respect. "It is not in the least bit late, and I insist. I am the captain of this ship, after all!"

"Please, no," I said.

"Must I issue an order?" the captain said with a sly smile.

"Please, Erik, I would love to hear you play," Erica entreated.

I could not turn down this lovely lady.

# # # # #

As the three of us strolled towards the salon, the captain engaged us in conversation. "You know, this particular crossing is proving to be most interesting."

"And how is that?" I asked.

"Well, on the second day of our voyage, I received a very strange note."

"Really?" Madame Campbell said. "Who was it from?"

"Well, that is the interesting part. It wasn't signed. But it said, let me see if I can remember correctly, 'Esteemed Captain. Please allow me to bring to your attention the fact that the constant use of the ship's steam whistle is detrimental to the hearing and overall well-being of your passengers and crew. It would be to your advantage to curb its use on this voyage.'"

Madame Campbell's reaction to the contents of the note was a long "Hmmmm."

I kept my mouth closed and kept walking.

# # # # #

"What shall I play?" I asked after I seated myself at the piano, which I noted was bolted to the floor to prevent it from moving in heavy seas.

"One of your compositions," Madame Campbell answered. She was standing to one side of the grand piano, and the captain had taken his position on the other. I thought for a moment and then, looking directly into my lovely companion's eyes, I began to play.

I had only played a few bars when she stopped me by exclaiming, "Oh, you cannot fool me! That was written by Mozart. I learned to play it when I was a young girl!"

"So it is," I grinned. "Very good."

I looked down at my hands poised over the keys and began to play one of my own compositions, one that I had written long ago and had not played in many years. It was not near as complex as my later works, but the melody was pleasing nonetheless. The music literally flowed from my fingers as they danced over the keys, and I could see the shape of the music take form before my eyes as it rang in my ears.

I did not know how much I missed the music. Not hearing it and not playing it for so long was like not breathing to me, but I did not even realise I had been suffocating until that moment. I breathed in deeply of the sound, smelling and tasting the food of the soul that I had so long denied myself. I felt my spirit come alive once more, loving the sounds coming forth from my hands.

When the song came to an end, I let my fingers rest on the keys, caressing the smooth ivory, getting reacquainted with an old friend.

I started when applause broke out all around me. It seems that a small crowd had gathered around the piano as I played, and now cheers and calls of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" rang in my ears. Not being accustomed to such appreciation, I just looked down at my hands once more.

Madame Campbell leaned down to me. "That was wonderful. Truly."

The good Captain offered his opinion of my performance as well. "My good man, I do not believe I have ever heard better music played in my life!"

My beautiful new friend was now even closer to me. "Would you do us the honor of playing something else?" she whispered in my ear.

She was now uncomfortably close, and I shrank away from her. In fact, there were entirely too many people around me right now. I couldn't breathe; it seemed as if the air was being sucked out of the room by all these people. I needed to get away; I wanted to be alone.

"I am sorry, I need to go." In truth, I couldn't get out of that room quickly enough.

"But..."

"I apologise, but I must go." I rose from the bench and left without another word.

As I walked–no, ran–to the safety of my cabin, I realised that it would take a little more time to shed the skin of my former self and transform into the new, improved Erik Destler.


	3. Chapter 3 A Proposition

**A Proposition**

******March 10  
**"Mr. Destler? Erik?"

A woman's voice, accompanied by light knocking, filtered through my cabin door. I immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Erica Campbell.

It was early morning; I had not yet dressed for the day. I frowned. Surely it was improper for a woman, especially a married woman, to go to a man's room unaccompanied? Was she not worried about the scandal should anyone see her?

"Madame Campbell, I am not ready to see you just yet," I said through the door. "I will meet you outside in twenty minutes."

"All right," she replied, "I'll wait for you. I have something important to discuss with you. Please hurry."

Not knowing what she possibly could have to say to me that could be so urgent, I hurried through my dressing ritual and went out on the deck to meet my new - and only - friend.

I found her standing at the deck rail, watching the whitecapped waves in their endless dance. I came up and stood beside her. "Good morning," I said.

"Oh, there you are. I waited ages for you!"

"I apologise for disappearing so quickly last night," I said to her. "I'm afraid I wasn't quite over my illness, and I felt unwell all of a sudden." I felt I needed to make some kind of excuse for my hasty exit out of the salon the previous evening, even though it was an outright lie.

"That's quite all right. I understand."

"And I am sorry for keeping you waiting this morning as well."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, never mind any of that. I have a wonderful idea, and I absolutely must share it with you!" She was brimming with excitement and seemed as though she would burst if she didn't tell me straight away. We sat opposite each other on two deck chairs, and she took my hands in hers. Startled by this intimate contact with a woman I barely knew, I tried to pull away, but she held on fast.

"Erik, I have decided that you will play at our hotel!"

I blinked at her. "Pardon me?" Surely I did not hear her correctly.

"Yes! It's perfect! I gathered from our conversation last evening that you don't have any plans as far as work is concerned, so here you are! Not permanently, of course, but until you can find suitable employment. After all, you will be staying with us at the hotel, correct? Why not work there as well? And we have the perfect place for your performances, oh, it's just perfect!"

She finally paused to take a breath.

I was shocked by her suggestion. Me, playing in public? "No, I couldn't possibly..."

"Oh, pish-posh. Of course you can. You played beautifully last night, and everyone was enthralled by your music. It's almost like... like magic when you play. Even after you left, people couldn't stop talking about how wonderful you were! You will be a sensation in Charleston! And you will be the star of the Carolinian!"

"As you probably noticed last evening, I am - uncomfortable - before an audience."

Her brow furrowed for a moment.

"But, did you not play for audiences in Paris?" she inquired.

"No, I did not. I earned a living through my compositions. I play for myself only."_ Myself and one other person._

"Oh, Erik, you are just too good not to share your talent with the rest of the world! Please tell me that you will play at our hotel." She looked up at me with pleading eyes; her expression conveyed to me that her entire world would collapse if I did not agree to her plan.

I paused for a moment, not wanting to bring up the obvious but knowing that it must be said.

"Do you not think that your clientele will be put off by..." I gestured towards my mask.

Her enchanting smile left her face as she regarded me seriously for a moment. "Erik, many of our young men were injured, disfigured even, during the war," she said quietly. "Many never came home. I'll wager that whatever you are covering with that mask is not as bad as what we see every day as war wounds on our brave Confederate soldiers."

"Truly?"

"Yes. Even my own dear brother went off bravely to defend the South, and he returned home without his right arm." Erica looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

"I am very sorry."

She looked up at me, and I saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears. I didn't know what else to say on the subject.

"But will your husband agree? To my playing, I mean?"

She waved her hand lightly, as if that was just a minor obstacle. "Oh, John agrees to anything I say. So, do we have an agreement?"

I thought about it for a moment. She was right; I did not have any prospects for gainful employment. Now I had a place to live and a job, all thanks to this woman. It seemed that things were looking up for me.

"Madame Campbell, I believe that you do."

"Oh, splendid! And no more of this 'Madame Campbell' nonsense. Please, call me Erica."

# # # # #

We strolled into the dining room for breakfast where we found Timothy and his governess just finishing their meal. Timothy's face lit up when he saw me.

"Theresa, Mr. Erik can make my ball disappear!" He pointed to me while looking at her. I had a feeling I would be compelled to perform this little trick every time I saw the young chap.

"Yes, Timothy, I know," Theresa said, smiling at the boy. "Now finish your breakfast."

Theresa, I noticed, would not look up at me. Was she afraid of me, or intimidated by my appearance, or just shy?

We sat down opposite Theresa and Timothy at the table.

"Make something disappear," demanded Timothy.

"Not now, dear," Erica chastised him lightly.

"Now!" he demanded.

"It is all right, I don't mind." I picked up a fork and waved my hand over it to make it magically vanish. Timothy's eyes were as round as saucers, watching my every move. Even Theresa couldn't help but watch. With a flourish I waved my hand again, and the fork reappeared. I set it back on the table with a small grin. Both Erica and Timothy clapped. Theresa just stared.

"Do it again!" Timothy said.

"Oh, I'm afraid I can only do one magic trick per day, young man."

Timothy's face fell.

"Theresa, if you and Timothy are finished with your breakfast, why don't you go back to the cabin and read Timothy a story?" Erica asked.

"Yes, ma'am." Theresa rose and took Timothy by the hand.

"G'bye, Mr. Erik." Timothy waved a chubby hand at me as he was led out of the room.

"Good bye, young man."

After they left, I said to Erica, "She is afraid of me."

"Oh, don't worry about that. She is afraid of everything and everybody. A timid sort."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I hired her hoping to bring her out of her shell, but it doesn't seem to be working. All the time we were in Paris, she jumped at every little noise and hid from everyone. It got to be quite tiresome. But she is very good with Timothy, so I keep her on."

Our meals arrived and we ate in companionable silence for a time.

"Erik," she finally said, "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," I replied.

"Were you injured?" She nodded toward my mask.

I studied the food on my plate for a moment. "No," I said, "It is not an injury. I was born with this."

"Oh."

A long, strained silence filled the space between us.

"We will not talk about it if you do not want to," she said.

I looked up at her. "Thank you."

**March 17  
**Snow and gray skies have given way to balmy, bright days. As we sail farther south, the temperature rises along with my hopes for the future. Perhaps I can rebuild my life. After all, I have made a new friend and secured a job and a place to live before ever setting foot in America. Perhaps this new land truly is the land of opportunity.

I thought it would be a good idea to brush up on my performance skills since I am about to become an "entertainer," so I made my way to the salon. The captain has generously allowed me the use of the regal grand piano any time I wish, but of course I choose to play at times when the room is deserted. Owing to the fact that most people at this time were either in the dining room having breakfast or out on deck enjoying the warm weather, I had the salon to myself.

Entertainer. I grimaced as I thought of that word. The very thought of me on display - _willingly_ - in front of an audience made me cringe. But, considering that I had no other immediate prospects, and knowing that my savings would not last indefinitely, I really did not have much of a choice. I consoled myself with the knowledge that it would not be a permanent engagement; it would only be until I could find "suitable employment," as Erica tactfully worded it.

I placed my hands on the ivory keys, poised to play, and let my imagination take over. The music that I brought forth from the instrument was none that had been written or played previously; my fingers instinctively knew which notes to play to form the chords and arpeggios in the correct succession to make this song complete. It was full of the emotion I could not let out on my own; I only trusted the music to do it for me. All the heartache, all the sadness, all the bitterness, all the rage that was pent up inside me burst forth. At various times I felt tears burn tracks down my face, then anger would rear its ugly head in the form of an animalistic growl from deep inside me. When, sweating and exhausted, I finally stopped and looked at my pocket watch, I was shocked to learn that I had played for nearly three hours. I glanced rather furtively around the room, but much to my relief it still was deserted. I suppose the nature of the music coming from inside was more than enough to frighten anyone away. I mopped my face with my handkerchief, straightened my cravat and left the room.

I chastised myself on my way back to my cabin. I still had not practiced for my new role as "entertainer" at The Carolinian.

# # # # #

That evening I made my way to the dining room to meet my new friends for dinner. I no sooner passed through the entryway than I heard Timothy's voice.

"Mr. Erik!"

Soon after, I saw him running between tables, bouncing off chairs, in his rush to meet me. I am certain that more than one diner was none too pleased with my little companion for interrupting their meal. I looked up and saw Erica standing at her place, a look of consternation on her face. Her expression softened when she saw that her son was with me.

Timothy took my hand and began tugging me towards their table. "We've been waiting for you!" he said breathlessly.

As we reached the table, I bowed to Erica and Theresa. "_Pardonnez-moi_," I said. "A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting. It is inexcusable of me."

"Not at all," Erica replied. "We have only just arrived ourselves."

"But Mama, we have been here for_ever_!" Timothy wailed.

Erica shot him a withering glance. He cowered in his seat.

"Only just a few minutes," she said to me with a small smile.

I finally remembered my manners and held out her chair for her. Theresa, ever the wilting violet, had remained seated throughout our exchange. I nodded to her from across the table as I sat; she became flustered and looked away.

"Mr. Erik, I want to see your magic again!" Timothy said enthusiastically. He was seated to my left. "Make something disappear!"

I turned to him with a gleam in my eye. "Are you sure you want something to disappear? Would you not rather want me to make something appear out of nowhere?" As I spoke those words, I lifted one hand to the boy's head, behind his ear, and drew it back with a coin held between my index and middle fingers.

"Now where did this come from, I wonder? From out of your ear?"

Timothy's eyes grew wide. "Was it in my ear, Mr. Erik? Did you put it there?"

I put the coin in the boy's hand and sat back in my chair. "I cannot divulge my secrets, my good man."

Timothy gazed down at the coin in wonder. Once again, Theresa simply stared at me. I do not think I have heard her say more than two words since we first met. I was about to be surprised by her.

"How do you do that?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Young lady, a magician never reveals his secrets. If he were to do so, they would not be secret any longer, would they?" I said this with a light smile, hoping I would not frighten the poor girl, but once again she looked away, a frown creasing her young forehead.

Erica laid a hand on my arm. "I don't know how you do that, but it truly is amazing," she said.

I turned to her and smiled. "It really is nothing; it just requires practice. As does anything else in life."

Dinner conversation was plentiful and centered around my new life in Charleston. Erica seemed to have my entire life mapped out for me: not only where I would live and work, but also who my friends should be and even where I should do my shopping. I did not know whether I should be angry at her for her presumption or thank her for caring so much. I opted for the latter. She did most of the talking, as was usual; I simply sat back and listened, occasionally nodding my head or answering "yes" or "no" to one of her questions. Erica, I learned, was a woman who loved to talk. I wondered to myself if her husband ever got a word in edgewise.

**March 22  
**Our sea voyage is nearly over. The Captain informed me yesterday that we are due to arrive in Charleston tomorrow.

My stomach is in knots. How will I like my adopted home? How will its inhabitants like me? Will they accept me, or will I once again be forced to live apart from society, hiding my accursed face from the world, enshrouded forever in darkness?

I was tormented throughout the night with these thoughts; they robbed me of my sleep. I felt more like the Phantom than Erik during this night, with dark thoughts seeping into my head. Try as I might, they would not go away. Images of the Opera House crept into my mind's eye: Buquet hanging from the end of my noose; Piangi lying dead behind the scenery; de Chagny fighting me valiantly for the sake of his lady love; and finally the worst image of all, Christine unmasking me onstage to the horror of everyone in the opera house. I could hear the gasps and cries as they looked upon the abomination that is my face. I remember the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as it happened, and I awoke from this nightmare with the same sensation. I also realised that my right hand was plastered to my face, unconsciously covering the twisted, discolored skin. The sick feeling inside me intensified, and I leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited.

# # # # #

I had to clear my head, and I had to get out of this room. I dressed hurriedly, throwing on a pair of trousers and a shirt, and I grabbed my mask and a coat and left the cabin.

The darkness of the night welcomed me. I did not look at a clock before I left my cabin, but I guessed that it was about 2 a.m. The decks were deserted. It was a clear night, and the moon provided more than enough light for me to make my way along the wood-planked deck. I stopped to lean over the rail, looking down at the calm water below. The salty sea air seemed to calm me - at least it calmed my stomach - and I resumed my moonlit stroll.

Everything seems so much more mysterious at night. Even the rows of deck chairs, so benign in the day, looked like rows of soldiers from some dark army, crouched in the shadows, waiting for the word to attack. I could not see the lower portion of the stairs that I knew led down to the next level and many of the passenger cabins but in the dark seemed as if they could be leading down to the very depths of Hell. The bow of the ship, off in the distance ahead of me, seemed to be plowing through the blackness and into what? - some unknown danger that we unsuspecting passengers know nothing about?

I shook my head and told myself to calm down. I took one more deep breath and sat down on one of the deck chairs, grinning to myself that it indeed was _not_ a demon soldier.

Would I be able to live my life in the light? I had lived for so long in the darkness, I truly did not know if it could be done. Damn Giry and her optimism! There would be no turning back now, seeing as we would reach our destination tomorrow.

It would be a trial by fire. I would survive or I would perish.


	4. Chapter 4 The New World

**The New World**

**March 23  
**Seeing land again after so many days at sea was thrilling. My stomach was in knots as I knew, once I disembarked the _Independence_, I would begin my new life, full of unknown people and places and events. I was excited at the prospect, but also a little frightened, especially after my nocturnal experiences of the night before. I was determined, however, to make every effort to create a new life for myself and try to be content. I do not say "happy," for that is an emotion about which I know nothing.

The four of us - Erica, Timothy, Theresa and I - stood on deck after breakfast and watched as we sailed toward the coast. As time went on, more and more passengers joined us until I grew quite uncomfortable with the large crowd, but my excitement over seeing land for the first time in many days overcame my uneasiness with being amidst so many people.

In their excitement, no one paid any attention to me or even seemed to care that a mask covered half my face. All during the voyage, I lived in constant fear that someone would recognize me or ask me questions about my face covering. No one did. Surely all Americans would not be as blasé about a masked man living among them.

Would they?

Timothy's antics helped to keep my mind focused on the future. He simply could not stand still, either jumping up and down in excitement or running about on deck, chanting, "We're home! We're home!" over and over. The simple act of watching him exhausted me.

The port city of Charleston is not on the coast as I had imagined, but actually quite far inland. We passed by pieces of land Erica called "barrier islands," and I noticed many small bodies of water branching off to the left and right. Everything was seemingly untouched by civilization. Were we really headed in the right direction? There couldn't possibly be a city amidst all this wilderness. No one else seemed to share my concern, however, so I surmised that Charleston must indeed be ahead. The ship slowly continued on its way, and finally we found ourselves in the natural harbor where the Ashley and Cooper rivers meet. The peninsula which was formed by these two rivers was the location of my new home.

Even though it was only mid morning, the weather was quite warm. I commented on this to Erica, who laughed lightly.

"If you think this is hot, just you wait until the dead of summer rolls around!"

"What do you mean?"

She did not answer me, but rather gave me one of her enigmatic smiles.

I noticed that everything was green and in full bloom. Back in Paris, trees would just be budding at this time. I credited this phenomenon to being in a warmer clime.

Charleston is indeed a bustling city, but just as Erica told me it bears the scars of war. From the deck of the ship I could see buildings lying in ruin, homes and businesses alike, even though the war has been over for seven years. Some things take a long time to heal, I thought to myself. Seeing this destruction took my mind back to Paris and how the opera house looked the last time I laid eyes on it. How it looked because of the damage I caused. I felt a sudden pang in my chest, and I wondered how the reconstruction was progressing on my former home.

I shook my head to rid myself of those thoughts. My new life lay before me. This city, Charleston, would be my new home. I already had a place to stay and gainful employment, thanks to Erica, and as I stood on deck watching the _Independence_ sail ever closer to my new home, I vowed to myself that I would make the best of this opportunity. How many men ever get the chance to start their lives over? I would take this gift and make the most of it.

Erica's husband John met us at the dock. Erica told me during the voyage that she had cabled him prior to her departure from France as to when she would arrive; he did not know, however, that she would be bringing with her a "stray puppy." He and I barely had the opportunity to shake hands and say hello after we disembarked due to Erica's and Timothy's chattering about all the wonderful and amazing things they had seen on their travels. After gathering everyone's luggage we determined that we would need more than one carriage for the five of us and all our baggage, so a second carriage was hired to follow the first. The Campbells rode in their personal conveyance with a few bags, and Theresa and I followed with the rest in the hired hack. If I did not feel such empathy for the poor girl, I would have laughed out loud at her; she sat as far away from me as she could and seemed to shrink within herself to make herself as small as humanly possible. She needn't have worried; I couldn't have touched her if I tried since the stack of valises on the seat between us kept us at more than an arm's length away from each other. Not a word was spoken between us during the trip to the hotel. I don't think either of us was in the mood for conversation.

I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at what was to be my new home. The Carolinian was quite unlike the Parisian hotels with which I was familiar. A covered veranda stretched across the entire front of the building, providing a welcome entryway for guests. White wicker furniture and potted ferns decorated this outdoor living area, inviting guests and passers-by to sit and enjoy the cool breeze. Pristine white shutters flanked all the gracefully arched windows, creating a pleasing, crisp contrast to the pink brick exterior. The hotel itself was four stories high and exuded elegance. I must say that I couldn't have made a better choice in accommodations if I tried. And to think that I would be living and working here; it seemed too good to be true.

I kept thinking to myself that it couldn't be real; that Erica had ulterior motives in bringing me here; that someone would recognize me and put an end to my deceit. I just couldn't grasp the concept of my being happy; even though that was why I came here in the first place, I never really thought it would come to pass. All of these thoughts flew through my mind before I ever set foot in the building.

The interior was even more welcoming, more elegant, than the exterior. Opulent, I should say, without being overdone or garish. I immediately noticed the intricate woodwork, ornate parquet floor and rich fabrics. Very nice.

The two porters who rushed outside to fetch all of our baggage had to make several trips to retrieve it all; Erica busied herself with sorting everyone's cases while Timothy continued regaling his father about all the wonderful things he had seen on his trip and I wandered about the lobby.

The hotel lobby stretched the entire width of the building, with several sitting areas off to the left of the entrance and a few more off to the right. The desk, an enormous mahogany structure, was in the center and to the back. A hotel clerk, dressed in a rather smart-looking uniform, stood behind it ready to greet guests. Behind him was a wall of small cubbyholes, one for each room, that contained room keys, mail and messages for the guests. Two very large fireplaces flanked the room, one off to each side. But what caught my attention was the gleaming grand piano tucked away in the far right corner of the room. I turned back to Erica.

"Is this where I am supposed to play?" I asked, gesturing to the instrument.

She glanced in the direction I indicated. "Oh, good heavens no!" she exclaimed. "You thought I'd have you play out here? That would be absurd! Come with me." And with that, she took my arm and led me to a set of double doors in the back of the room off to the right.

Erica opened the doors and showed me into a small performance hall. It, too, was beautifully decorated and contained row upon row of velvet-upholstered seats. The stage at the far end of the room was hidden by heavy velvet curtains. It certainly was no Paris Opera House, but it was lovely nonetheless.

"You will play here," she said to me. "We've had performances in here, concerts and sometimes even plays." She ran a hand along the back of one of the seats, and her gloved finger came back smeared with a coating of dust. "I'm afraid it has been used very little, since the war." She looked pensive for a moment.

"But that will change, now that you are here!"

# # # # #

Erica insisted that I take some time to settle in my room. As my bags had already been delivered by the bellboy, I climbed the stairs to Room 317 with just a key in my hand.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that The Carolinian was a hotel with all the modern conveniences, including private baths and hot and cold running water. I marveled at this fact as I drew a bath for myself and then sank down into the warm, inviting water, letting it envelop me up to my neck. All the tension in my muscles seemed to melt away, and I closed my eyes as I leaned my head back against the edge of the tub.

The next thing I knew, the water was frigid and I was shivering.

I could not keep my hosts waiting for dinner, so I rushed to get dressed. My pocket watch declared that it was already 7 p.m.

"Damn!" I swore as I stuffed the watch in my waistcoat pocket. I took one last look in the mirror, satisfied that I could do no more with my appearance, and left to meet the Campbells for dinner in the hotel dining room.

# # # # #

"I am meeting the Campbells," I said in French to the _maître d'hôtel_. He smiled at me, obviously happy to be able to communicate with someone in his native language.

"_Redressez de cette façon, monsieur_," he replied, telling me to follow him.

The Campbells were seated at what I surmised was their designated table, in the far back corner of the dining room. John Campbell stood to greet me.

"_Pardonnez-moi_, I always seem to be late for dinner," I said apologetically. I shook Campbell's hand and placed a chaste kiss upon Erica's knuckles. The _maître d' _held my chair for me to sit.

"_Merci_," I said to him. He nodded his head and returned to his post.

"I am so sorry, but we began without you," Erica said. "I had no idea when you would be down."

"Think nothing of it," I assured her. "The day's activities took a toll on me, and I slept longer than I should have. I apologise for keeping you waiting."

I noticed that only the three of us were at the table. "May I ask of Timothy's whereabouts?"

Erica smiled. "You were not the only one tuckered out from the day. He is asleep upstairs. He normally takes his meals in our apartment with Theresa, at any rate."

"So, Mr. Destler, what do you think of Charleston so far?" Campbell asked me as I perused the menu.

"I have not seen much of it, but I like what I have seen, sir," I said to him.

"I believe that tomorrow we shall take a tour of the city!" Erica declared. "You really should see some of the beautiful homes and lovely scenery here. Then you will feel more at home."

"Now Erica, don't go monopolizing poor Mr. Destler's time. I'm sure he has better things to do than go riding around the city," said Campbell as he patted her hand.

"Actually, I do not," I replied. "I would love to see the architecture of the city. I am most interested in the design of buildings."

Erica rubbed her hands together in delight. "Then it is settled! Why don't we meet in the lobby at ten?"

"I shall be there," I said with a smile.

The Campbells' dinners arrived, and I looked curiously at their entrees. Campbell had ordered a steak, that was easy enough to see, but Erica's meal was far less discernible. The meat was covered with a green sauce of some kind. It did not look appetizing to me at all.

"Pardon me," I said to her, leaning over to get a better look at her plate, "but can you tell me what is that?"

"Oh! You will love this! It is lamb with mint jelly! Delicious!"

I wasn't so sure about that. Mint jelly? On lamb? I had never heard of this concoction before, and it did not sound–or look–appetizing in the least. Before I could say anything about it, however, Erica had motioned one of the waiters over to the table.

"Please bring another order of the lamb and mint jelly for our guest," she told him, gesturing to me. I must have had a look of indecision upon my face, for she smiled and assured me that it was indeed delicious. The waiter bowed and disappeared, no doubt to carry out his order as quickly as possible.

I felt rather uncomfortable in the silence that ensued. Usually I am rather fond of silence, living alone for as long as I have, but it seemed wrong here.

"Tell me, sir, do you know the population of this city?" I asked Campbell.

"Well, now, let me see. I believe it is approximately 50,000."

"Truly? I would have thought it was much more."

"Why? What is the population of Paris?"

"It is just over one million now."

Erica's eyes grew wide at my comment. "A million? I never knew there could be that many people in one place!"

"Yes, it is possible, madame," I replied with a smile. "Although, I do not claim to know even a fraction of them."

"But surely in your occupation you must know a large number of people, especially in the artistic community," Erica said.

"My dear Madame Campbell, you would be surprised to know just how small my circle of acquaintances actually is–or was," I replied to her with a small smile.

She pondered over my words for a moment, then said brightly, "Well, we shall have to do something about that, shan't we?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, we shall have to make certain that you are introduced to the very finest families in town. And their eligible daughters." She had a wicked gleam in her eyes that made me very, very nervous. I nearly choked on my wine.

"Whatever it is that you are planning, Madame, I beg of you..."

"Oh, I assure you, I am planning nothing, nothing at all. But if I should introduce you, and something should come of that..." There was that mischievous grin of hers again!

I breathed a sigh of relief when Campbell finally cut in. "Now, Erica dear, leave the poor man be. He's just arrived, why don't you let him catch his breath for a week or two and get settled in before you go meddling in his private life?" He then turned to me with an apologetic smile and said, "She cannot help it. She is a born meddler. I learned to live with this years ago."

At least he was trying to give me a little time. He and I exchanged a quick look; I said "thank you" and he said "don't mention it" without either of us having to say a word. As Erica predicted, I did believe that he and I could become friends.

Erica, disappointed that she would not be able to marry me off immediately, sighed heavily and stared down at her plate.

As if on cue, the waiter appeared with my dinner.

"Oh, there you are," she said happily. "Now you will see how delicious this really is."

She watched me intently as I took up my knife and fork, cautiously cut a piece of the meat and dipped it into the bright green gelatinous sauce. With much trepidation I slowly lifted it to my mouth. The flavors mingled together on my tongue, and I must admit that it was exquisite. Maybe American cuisine would not be as bad as I feared.

"It is quite delicious," I said after I swallowed the mouthful.

Erica put one hand to her chest and exclaimed, "Oh, I _knew_ you would like it! I just knew it!"

After the meal was over, Campbell ordered something called a "mint julep" for the two of us and a sherry for his wife. Again I was assured that it was something I would like. A Southern delicacy. I surmised that mint is very popular in America. The drinks were brought to the table almost immediately, the sherry in a tiny aperitif glass and the juleps in small silver tumblers.

"There are many ways in which to make a mint julep," Campbell said to me, leaning back comfortably in his chair, "but this recipe has been handed down through my family. It contains the finest bourbon whiskey and fresh mint leaves. You are meant to sip it slowly."

I took up the tumbler and took a tentative sip. Bourbon, mint and sugar: a deadly combination, especially since I am not much of a drinker. But, like the lamb, I think this "mint julep" is something I could get used to...

"It is very good," I said.

"Ah ha, I knew you would like it!" Campbell proclaimed, smacking one hand down on the table. "We will make a Southerner of you yet!"

# # # # #

We walked through the hotel lobby after we had finished our after-dinner drinks. Erica was in between Campbell and me, taking an arm from each of us. She was happily chatting away about our upcoming tour of the city and hoping that it would not rain.

I glanced across the room and noticed a young woman dressed in black with a white apron and white ruffled cap. She obviously worked at the hotel. I saw her earlier in the day when we arrived, and now she was watching us.

"Who is that girl?" I leaned over to ask Erica.

She glanced over in the direction I indicated and murmured to me, "That is Annabelle Gustin. She works here. Comes from a very good family; her father was a very successful banker before the war, but lost everything... Very sad. The family has had to make do ever since. She is a good worker."

I glanced over at Mademoiselle Gustin once more, and I saw that she was still watching me. _Merde_. I wish people would understand that it is quite impolite to stare.

Does she not know that I have killed for less?

_I am the new and improved Erik Destler... I am no longer the Opera Ghost... _I kept repeating this mantra in my head, hoping to convince myself that the words were true. With all my being I wanted to lash out at this extremely rude girl who just stood there staring at me. What right did she have to gape at me, this upperclass ninny who was reduced to working as a hotel maid? I felt my blood boil in my veins, and my hand was shaking as I reached up to straighten my cravat. The girl's eyes never left me. If she ever knew the meaning of propriety, it had since flown out of her empty little head. But, I kept repeating my mantra and decided to play the role of the gentleman in this little tableau when what I really wanted to do was close my hands around her neck and strangle the girl.

I looked Annabelle Gustin square in the eyes, smiled and formally bowed to her. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep from laughing at her reaction: if she had not been leaning against the grand piano for support, I do believe she would have fainted dead away.


	5. Chapter 5 A Photograph

**A Photograph**

**March 24  
**I met Erica for my tour of the city at our appointed place and time. I immediately noticed, however, that she was bringing others with us on our little outing. One addition to the group was little Timothy, who I was glad to have along; even though I have absolutely no experience with children, I had quickly grown fond of the little chap. I was more than a little annoyed to see that the other member of our party was the rude little maid Annabelle Gustin. She stood next to Erica wearing a light blue dress, looking quite different from how I had seen her last night in her working uniform, and she smiled nervously as I approached.

"So I see our little touring party has increased in number?" I asked Erica.

"Yes, well, I thought the more the merrier," she said with a light laugh. I think she sensed my displeasure at her having invited Mademoiselle Gustin on the tour. She took Annabelle's hand and gently nudged her towards me. "Annabelle Gustin, may I introduce Monsieur Erik Destler, newly arrived from France. Erik, this is Annabelle Gustin."

"_Enchanté, mademoiselle_," I said as I took her hand and bowed over it. I did not, however, smile as I did so.

"_Merci, monsieur_," she replied quietly, eyes downcast. Quite a difference from last night, when she stared unabashedly at me.

"_Je suis heureux que vous parliez français_," I said to her, indicating that I was pleased that she spoke French.

"_Je parle français un peu_. Father insisted that I learn a foreign language, and since my grandmother was French, it was easy enough for me to learn."

"Well, isn't that nice?" Erica exclaimed. "You two have something in common!"

I turned to glare at my overeager friend. Her matchmaking tendencies were at full force already, and I was not pleased about that at all.

"Mr. Erik, can you do a magic trick for me?" Timothy looked up at me with hopeful eyes.

Erica placed a hand on Timothy's shoulder. "Timothy, you cannot expect Mr. Erik to..."

I waved a hand, indicating that it was all right. "I don't mind, really."

I knelt down to Timothy's level and once again reached behind his ear. When I drew it back, I had a peppermint bonbon secured between my fingers. Annabelle gasped in surprise.

"Now, how do you suppose that got there?" I asked him. "Are you in the habit of hiding sweets in your ear?"

"No, sir," he uttered, his eyes glued to the sweet treat in my hand. "May I have it?" I glanced up at his mother, who nodded her approval, and I placed the confection in Timothy's eager hand. He wasted no time unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth.

"Mmmm, peppermint! My favorite!"

I smiled at the child and stood up.

"Well, shall we depart?" I asked my hostess, holding out my arm for her.

"Yes, I believe we shall!"

# # # # #

Our tour of Charleston convinced me that I had indeed chosen the right city for my new home. It is filled with lively and interesting architecture in its stately homes and grand public buildings. Unfortunately many of these buildings were damaged or destroyed during the war–what my two companions kept referring to dourly as the "war of Northern aggression"–but in the seven years since the war's end some of those scars have begun to heal. I saw evidence of reconstruction nearly everywhere I looked, and I mentioned this to Erica.

"Oh, do not even mention that word to me!" she cried.

"What word?" I asked. I did not realize I had said anything that could possibly upset her.

"Reconstruction," she spat.

I raised my eyebrow in question. By this time we had arrived at the Battery, and we all stepped out of the carriage to stroll along the waterfront overlooking Charleston Harbor. Erica and Annabelle proceeded to enlighten me about Reconstruction.

"Oh, those horrid Yankees," Erica began.

"And what about those 'horrid Yankees'?" I prompted her.

"After the war, the Northerners came down here in droves, under the pretense of helping us rebuild our cities and governments. Reconstruction." Erica wrinkled her nose as if smelling something quite unpleasant. "The only thing those awful Carpetbaggers really had on their minds was lining their pockets! They stole from our treasuries, issued fraudulent bonds and kept raising our taxes, but there was nothing left for us to pay. They had bled the entire South dry. We had no money for rebuilding our schools, churches, public buildings, railroads, even our homes. That's why so much still lies in ruin; there is no money to rebuild."

"And so many of them are still here," Annabelle chimed in, "having gotten themselves elected or appointed to office. Common criminals is all they are. Good Southern families have been completely ruined, and those horrid Yankees continue to steal from us all!" She put particular emphasis on "horrid Yankees," and I was beginning to think that those two words were permanently melded together, much like the words in another phrase I knew all too well: "prima donna."

Erica put a comforting arm around Annabelle's shoulders. I remembered what Erica told me last night about Annabelle's family having lost everything in the war, and I felt the beginnings of what could only be described as compassion for the girl.

"There, there, now. Everything will be all right," Erica said to the girl.

Annabelle looked up at the older woman and tried to smile, wiping a stray tear from her eye. I saw for the first time that the girl is very pretty with an abundance of blonde hair that fell in ringlets around her face. She also has lovely brown eyes–very expressive eyes, for one so young. Maybe I should not say "one so young," for I do not know how old she is. I would guess her age to be about twenty. She has an open, pleasing sort of face, with a high forehead, angular cheekbones, tiny dimples that only appear when she smiles and a tiny little nose that turns up slightly at the end.

Annabelle sniffled a few times and then regained her composure. As she patted away the few tears on her cheeks and whisked away a lock of hair that had blown into her face, her gaze fell out into the harbor.

"Oh, Mr. Destler, out there in the harbor is Fort Sumter. You passed by it when you arrived, but did Mrs. Campbell inform you of its significance?"

I shook my head. "No, she did not. Perhaps you may enlighten me."

"Well, the first shots of the entire war of Northern aggression were fired right out there," she said, pointing toward the fort. "The Union army was garrisoned in the fort, and our own Confederate General Beauregard demanded that they surrender it. They refused, of course, and in April 1861–I believe it was April 12th–the Confederate army began its attack on the fort."

"Were they successful?" I asked.

"Of course they were!" Erica enthused. "The battle lasted less than 36 hours, and Charlestonians gathered right here, where we are standing, to watch it unfold. By the end, those Union soldiers gave up the ghost and went back up North with their tails tucked between their legs!"

"Amazing," I mumbled, half to myself.

"Yes, it was truly amazing," Erica said to me. I was surprised she heard me. "I only wish the rest of the war had been as successful as that battle."

Erica and Annabelle both fell silent, no doubt reliving this recent devastating war. I could not imagine a war being fought so close to home and wondered about the scars this city's inhabitants must carry on their souls to match the physical destruction that surrounded us.

Glancing about me, I admired many of the lovely homes situated near the Battery and made my appreciation known. Erica either knew or knew of the owners of each one and, having by then shaken off her melancholy, proceeded to inform me about them all in turn as we reboarded our carriage and continued on with our tour. With her gift of storytelling, she turned out to be the perfect tour guide.

We rode past the First Scots Presbyterian Church on Meeting Street, and Erica was all too happy to inform me that it was designed by Benjamin Latrobe, the first American-trained architect. "He also designed the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C.," she said with a hint of pride. It was a nice enough building. Never having had any interest in anything religious, I simply could not get too excited about a church.

I did, however, show a great deal of interest in the Farmers and Exchange Bank on Bay Street. Its unique Moorish design, with high arches and rosette windows over the three entry doors, gave the building an exotic feel. The builders cleverly made use of the color variations in the brownstone used for the facade, giving the building a "banded" effect. I was quite taken with this building, in part for its unusual design and in part because there was no other building in the city quite like it–it was an original.

Erica pointed out several other buildings of interest during our riding tour, including City Hall, which was rather impressive, and Hibernian Hall, with its stately Greek facade.

By this time our tour concluded and we returned to the hotel for a late lunch. Annabelle, however, was due to begin her work shift, so I thanked her for her company and bade her _adieu_ before she scurried off to change into her work frock.

**March 31  
**"She is very pretty, isn't she?"

Erica startled me out of my thoughts with her question. I looked up from the soup I had been stirring for the past several minutes and turned towards my lunch companion.

"_Pardon_?"

"Annabelle. She's very pretty."

"Erica, do not..." I gave her what I hoped was a stern and menacing look, but in truth I was really worried about what she was concocting in that devious brain of hers.

"Don't what?" she asked innocently.

"I know what you are trying to do. Don't."

"Oh, can you blame me for wanting to see you happy?"

"No, I cannot, but it must be on _my_ terms, and with someone of _my _choosing." I lifted a spoonful of soup to my mouth. It had grown quite cold, and I made a face as I swallowed it. I set the spoon down and pushed the bowl away from me.

Erica frowned and turned away from me, muttering to herself, "If I left it up to you, you would be alone for the rest of your life."

"I heard that."

"Well, it's true. You've been here for over a week, and you've gone outside only once. You're like a hermit or something."

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," I said under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I answered with a small smile.

"Well," Erica said with a touch of a sly grin, "you'll have to go out tomorrow. I've made an appointment for you at the photographer's for ten o'clock."

"Photographer? Whatever for?"

"Why, we'll need a photograph of you for your premiere performance, silly!"

Just the thought of having my photograph taken made me queasy. I had never had a photograph taken before–why would I, or anyone else for that matter, want a lasting reminder of the horror that is my face?–and I surely did not want to have one taken now. Even if I agreed to this farce, I was certain the photographer would refuse to perform his services for the likes of me.

There must be some way to talk Erica out of this folly.

"Erica, surely you do not need a photograph..."

"Of course we do! It will go on the poster in the lobby announcing your concert! We simply have to have a photograph on the poster!"

"Perhaps just a drawing? I could create a sketch..."

"Erik, stop being so silly. You will have your photograph made tomorrow, and that is the end of it! I will hear no more about it."

**April 1  
**I did not fail to note the irony of today's date as I went off like a proper fool to the photographer's studio. It was only a few blocks away from The Carolinian, so I chose to walk and take in a bit of fresh air. Erica was right; I had not been out of the hotel, except for our little carriage tour, since my arrival. In all fairness, I did not see the need: everything I required was right there, at my fingertips, at my beck and call. What need did I have to go out?

I grew frustrated at Erica's meddling, but at the same time, I appreciated that she cared so much.

_Henri Rossignol, Portraiture_, the sign read outside the small shop. So, the man is a fellow Frenchman. This ordeal may not be so bad after all. I opened the door and a tiny bell tinkled to announce my presence. A few seconds later a tall, wiry man emerged from the back room.

"_Bonjour, monsieur. Je m'appelle Erik Destler. J'ai un rendez-vous..._"

The man interrupted me, which I thought was quite rude. "I am sorry, but I do not understand you."

"Oh. Forgive me, but your name is French. I assumed..."

"My name is actually Henry Ross. I changed it to make it sound more European for my business."

"Has it helped?"

"It has not hurt." He smiled.

"Well. Please accept my apologies for my assumptions. I am Erik Destler."

"Yes, I understood that much." He held out his hand. "Mrs. Campbell told me about you."

I took his hand and shook it. "What exactly did she tell you?" I asked hesitantly.

"Not to worry, she spoke very highly of you. And I am to immortalize your likeness for all the ages." He said this with a grand sweep of his hand, as if it was something he said to all his customers–his sales pitch, if you will.

I saw that the walls of this room were adorned with portraits, some of families and some of individuals. The subjects in these photographs all had two things in common: they were dressed in their best, and they were handsome. I still had my doubts as to what Monsieur Rossignol–Mr. Ross–could do for me.

"No, not posterity, just for next week," I replied. "Madame Campbell says that she 'requires' a photograph of me for the poster for my piano concert. Personally, I do not see the need for such a thing."

"But of course, you need a photograph!"

"But I have never..."

"You have never had a photograph taken?" he asked me.

"No," I said softly, looking away from him. "Who would want to look at this?"

He gazed at my face, closely scrutinizing me, to the point where I became quite uncomfortable. After a time I turned away from him.

"I have an idea," he finally said. "Come with me." He disappeared behind the curtain that separated the front room from the back and gestured for me to follow him.

Never having seen a photographer's studio before, I did not know what to expect. One wall was completely covered with a dark velvet curtain, the drapes deep and full. Several chairs were scattered around the room, ready to be put to use as needed. A large box-like instrument set up on three legs stood in the middle of the room; it had a drape hanging down from what I guessed was the back side. This must be the camera, I surmised.

The tall man immediately went to work. He pulled a chair in front of the large drape. "All right, I want you to stand here, just like this, put your hands on the back of this chair..." he turned me just so, satisfied that I was in the right position, "...and turn your head like this..." and he turned my head until he was sure it also was in the correct position. "...good. That's very good." Then he disappeared behind the camera.

"Mr. Destler, can you move your head down just a bit, and back toward me...yes, that's good. Now please focus on an object a little higher on the wall. Perfect. Now, don't move."

After about ten seconds, Mr. Ross emerged from behind the camera. "That's it. Thank you very much."

"That is all?"

"Yes, my friend. Tell Mrs. Campbell that I will have the photograph sent to her tomorrow."

"I shall. Thank you." I held out my hand, and he took it.

As I left Mr. Ross' studio, I lingered a bit to view some of the photographs lining the walls of the outer room. I was surprised to see a portrait of the Campbells–Erica, John and little Timothy–hanging there amongst so many strangers. They looked so serious in the image, not at all the smiling, happy people I know. I smiled ruefully, knowing that my picture would never join theirs on the wall.

**April 2  
**"Erik! Please come over here!"

Erica's voice traveled across the length of the hotel lobby. I had come downstairs to rehearse in the performance hall and had just entered the lobby when I heard her calling to me.

"Is something wrong?" I asked as I reached her.

"No, not at all. I just wanted to show you this." She directed my attention to the poster resting on a large easel in front of the performance hall entry.

I gasped in shock. It contained the photograph of me, and I looked..._ normal_. Mr. Ross had positioned me with my back almost fully towards the camera's lens, with the left side of my face turned back to the camera. My mask was not visible at all. I could only stare at the picture with my mouth hanging open. He had done the impossible and made me human.

A tear slid down my face before I even became aware of it, and I angrily brushed it away. No, I would not let one silly picture affect me so! But simply looking upon it brought so many emotions up to the surface: sadness of what I had lost and never would have, anger at being born a monster, grief over having lost the love of my life, even terror at how the audience would react when they saw me. Before I could quell it, a heart-wrenching sob escaped me from deep within my soul.

Erica, seeing the state I was in, quickly ushered me inside the deserted performance hall. I slumped into one of the plush velvet seats, and she sat right next to me.

"Oh, Erik, I know," she cooed to me as she put her arms around me. Her comforting only made me worse, and I cried even more, resting my head on the inviting softness of Erica's shoulder. She stroked my hair, patted my back, shushed me... all the things any mother would do for a crying child.

Any mother but mine.

Long minutes passed before I regained my composure enough to sit up and dry my eyes. I turned away from her to lift up my mask and dry the tears that had accumulated underneath on the twisted, scarred skin.

"Forgive me," I whispered.

"There is no need," she said quietly.

"You have been such a good friend; I would hate to ruin that..."

"Erik, you have ruined nothing. I know your life has been hard. A little emotion now and then is nothing to apologise for or to be ashamed of."

I grasped her hand that rested on my shoulder and kissed her knuckles in gratitude. She, in return, leaned her head on my shoulder where her hand had been.

"I must go," she said after a moment. "Will you be all right?"

"Of course. I came down to rehearse."

With a smile and a sweep of her hand to the piano on the stage, she said, "The stage is yours, _monsieur_."

**April 4  
**The past three days have found me in the performance hall. The knot in my stomach grows larger each day. I am not worried over my performance; in fact, I am quite confident that my music will be well received. I even tuned the piano myself. I am frightened–yes, I use the word _frightened_–of the audience's reaction to me. The nightmares that have plagued me for the past three nights about my unmasking in Parishave grown progressively worse: the first night, the audience screamed; the second night, they threw rotten vegetables at me; the third night, they rushed the stage before I was able to escape. I can only wonder what will happen tonight. Perhaps I shall not go to sleep at all to avoid the calamity I am sure will unfold.

I have decided to perform some well-known classics along with my original compositions during my recital. I have included a few selections by Mozart, since everyone seems to like him–I have no idea why, since I believe his melodies to be simplistic and juvenile; and I also have chosen to play one very difficult Chopin piano sonata just because I like it. The rest of the music is my own.

My debut performance is tomorrow evening: the first time I shall perform (as myself) before an audience. The knot in my belly grows ever larger. What have I gotten myself into?

Pounding away on the ivory keys, I pushed all these thoughts out of my mind and concentrated solely on the music. Ah, yes, the music can make me forget about everything else. It is my drug, my solace, my comfort. I can feel no sadness, no shame, no regret while I create the music. If only I could play every hour of every day...

My hands were aching from the abuse I heaped upon them, and I stopped to rest, clenching and unclenching my hands to flex my fingers. I heard a swishing noise out in the seating area. Two girls were busy dusting and cleaning, making sure that the room was spotless for tomorrow's performance. One other girl was seated, staring intently at me.

It was Annabelle.


	6. Chapter 6 Erik's Debut

**Erik's Debut**

**April 5  
**I was in a state of unadulterated panic.

"No! I cannot go out there!"

"Erik, please..." Erica tried to reason with me, but her words fell on deaf ears.

I paced the tiny backstage area like a caged animal. I must have looked ridiculous, dressed in a formal tuxedo with a gold brocade waistcoat and black silk cravat, endlessly pacing, with a look of abject terror in my eyes. The very walls seemed to be closing in on me.

"You do not understand. I have never performed for an audience before. I cannot do this."

That statement was not entirely truthful. I had been onstage once, albeit in disguise, as the infamous lover Don Juan. I closed my eyes to the memory of that performance and to the dreams about it that had been haunting my sleep in recent nights.

"Erik! For the love of God, stop that infernal pacing!"

I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the commanding tone in Erica's voice.

"You need to take a deep breath and calm down," she said to me in a more tranquil, motherly tone. "Sit," she commanded.

I did as I was told, but it did nothing to assuage my fears or steady my nerves.

"The theatre is filled. Everyone is waiting for you. Everyone who is anyone in Charleston is out there in the audience. This is your American debut."

I laughed bitterly. "My American debut? This is my world debut!"

"All the better," she insisted. "And I know you will be spectacular."

I knew she meant it.

I wanted to believe it.

Erica and her husband had become dear friends to me and helped me so much since my arrival in South Carolina. I didn't want to do anything to disappoint them. But the thought of going onstage and..._ displaying..._ myself to an audience–full of Charleston's finest, no less–made my stomach churn.

I could already hear the gasps, the cries of horror, the screams. No, I could not–I _would not _–subject myself to that humiliation, even to appease my friend. I remember all too well the audience's screams when Christine heartlessly ripped off my mask, exposing my face to the world. Much as I am determined to become a new man, I cannot erase those memories or heal the scars they left on my soul.

"I am sorry, Erica, but I cannot do it. Not tonight."

"Will you? For me? Please?"

"No. Make whatever apologies you feel necessary, but I cannot go on."

# # # # #

The comfort of Room 317 seemed miles away. I trudged up the stairs and down the deserted hall, fumbling in my pocket for my key. I closed the door behind me, finally safe in my dark haven of drawn curtains and unlit candles.

I knew the mental scolding I gave myself once I was sequestered in my room was nothing compared to what I would receive from Erica. I was a coward. I could not even do something as simple as go out on the stage and play the piano, damn it all! How could I just walk away like that? Coward, coward, coward!

In a fit of pique, I flung off my tailcoat and threw it on the bed. The waistcoat followed next. I struggled with the cravat, but soon it too found its way onto the growing pile of formal attire accumulating in a pile on the quilt. Even my starched white shirt, replete with ruffles down the front, seemed to stifle my breathing so I unbuttoned it until it hung open, baring my chest so I could finally breathe freely. The final piece to be removed, my despised mask, came to rest upon the dresser with a satisfying thud.

What had I done? I had ruined Erica's reputation and any hope for me to be taken seriously as a musician in this town, all in a matter of minutes. All because of my damnable fears.

I slumped down into the armchair under the window and held my head in my hands.

Time sped by, or did it crawl? I know not how much time elapsed before I heard a soft knock upon my door. I did not respond. I hoped whoever was there would just leave me be to wallow in the darkness.

I did not hear the door open. I did hear, however, the soft rustle of silk skirts as Erica entered my room and closed the door behind her. Horrified that she might see me, I turned the malformed side of my face away from her and said, "Please go away."

"Erik, where are you?" she asked softly in the darkness. She could not see me in the gloom, but my eyes being accustomed to the darkness I could see her perfectly well.

"I cannot see you now. Please go," I repeated.

"Everyone has gone. I told them you were suddenly taken ill. Erik, it's all right. I understand. I am not angry." She took a few tentative steps in my direction.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't come any closer."

I was trembling. I could not let her see me without my mask, and it was frustratingly out of reach on the dresser.

She took a few more steps toward me. She was close enough to reach out and touch me, but instead she knelt in front of my chair. I turned my head as far away from her as I could, twisting myself awkwardly in the process, and closed my eyes.

"Erica, please..." At this point I was begging her. My chest was heaving as I gasped for air.

"Erik. Erik, please look at me."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I am hideous and dare not show my repulsive face to someone as lovely as you," I whispered.

Neither of us spoke or moved for a long, long moment.

Then I felt Erica's hand reach up to turn my head towards her. I fought her, but she was insistent and finally succeeded. I kept my head down, my chin to my chest, until her hand slipped under my chin and forced my head up. My eyes remained closed; I could not bear to see her reaction to the abomination that is my face.

"Erik," she said, that one word soft yet commanding. I could not disobey her.

I mustered all my strength to finally open my eyes. Her expression did not reveal to me horror, or fear, or revulsion, but... compassion.

"You... you are not repulsed by me?"

"Why should I be? Are you any different than you were yesterday?"

"No. But yesterday you had not seen... this."

I gestured to the right side of my face. She followed my hand with her own, gently laying it on my mangled cheek. I flinched from the contact, and she pulled her hand back.

"Did I hurt you? Is it painful?"

"No, it is not," I whispered. "I hardly have any feeling at all there. I just am not used to... to anyone... touching me."

"Oh, my poor, poor Erik, I can only imagine what you have gone through in your life," she whispered as her arms slid around my neck. I fell to my knees on the floor before her as she hugged me tightly. I tried to pry her arms free, being uncomfortable with her close proximity, but she held on fast.

"Please do not pity me," I pleaded.

"Believe me when I say I do not pity you, Erik," she murmured in my ear, causing shivers to run down my spine. "And I am so sorry I tried to force you to go onstage tonight."

"I am the one who should apologise. I made a promise to you, and I broke it."

My arms found their way around her, and we silently held each other for a long while. She stroked the back of my head, as a mother would her child, and I relaxed a bit under her calming touch.

This was the second time Erica had held me in her arms and comforted me. I liked the feel of her arms around me...

She quietly hummed a tuneless little melody as she stroked my head, slowly rocking back and forth. I felt her warm breath on my neck as she lifted her head, and then she placed a light kiss on my scarred cheek.

I was overwhelmed by the touch of her soft lips against my hard, scarred skin. I exhaled, not realizing that I had been holding my breath, and fell further into her embrace. I felt her lips touch my temple.

My cheek.

My nose.

My jaw...

...And then my lips.

She kissed me!

I tried to pull away from her, knowing somewhere in the back of my befuddled brain that this was not right, that she should not be doing this; but her arms held me tightly to her, and her lips met mine once again.

I can never adequately describe in these pages the sweetness of that kiss; it was so tender, so full of kindness. I had only been kissed once before in my life, and Christine kissed me only to save her precious boy. Her kiss left me feeling cold and empty.

Erica's kiss, on the other hand, ignited an unknown fire deep within me.

I slowly stood, dragging Erica up with me, until we were once more locked in each other's arms. Our lips never parted. I cradled the back of her head with one hand as the other slid around the small of her back, drawing her closer to me. A tiny noise escaped her as our bodies collided. She clung to me tightly, crushing herself to me. The kiss deepened, and our tongues met–oh, what a glorious sensation!

Does every kiss ignite the soul so? Or awaken the body thus? Can a man truly find redemption simply in the meeting of lips?

My arms tightened even more around her.

Somehow I found myself lying on the bed with the lovely Erica atop me. She drew her head away from me and gazed down upon me with green eyes full of what I can only describe as hunger.

"How is it you are not repulsed by me?" I asked her breathlessly.

"How could I possibly be repulsed?" she replied, one hand slowly caressing the exposed skin of my chest. "If I had been, would I have tried so hard to keep you close?"

"But, why...?" I couldn't even formulate a complete sentence at this point; I was completely undone by her caresses.

"Shhh."

Her lips met mine again, and all the questions and doubts flew out of my head.

I could not think, I could not speak; my mind was nothing but a hazy swirl of emotions, all focused on the woman in my arms and a certain part of my anatomy that had grown rigid to the point of pain.

I was filled with more passion than I had ever experienced in my life–more than I ever felt for Christine, more even than I felt while playing or composing my music.

I blush as I put pen to paper to write about our interlude–our caresses, our kisses, the sweetness of her breath against my skin. The gentle touch of her soft hands ignited a fire within me, a fire that burned hotter than the midday South Carolina sun. In the darkness of the room I saw that her eyes fairly shone as she gazed at me. The room was silent save for our labored breathing.

I felt I would surely explode if she touched me one moment longer.

Our lips never separating, we rolled over until she was on her back and I on my side next to her. I leaned over her to deepen the kiss, and she moaned in response. I pulled back from her so I could see for myself what a woman in the throes of passion really looked like.

Erica's tiny whimper was her response, and she reached up for me again. I dove down into the warm, welcoming flesh of her ample bosom, tasting of her soft, supple skin. Her arms enfolded around my head, urging me on. Lost in my delirium, I pressed my body harder against her, trying to provide some slight bit of relief for my ever-growing discomfort, as I felt one of her arms slide down my back, caressing me, encouraging me, drawing me closer. I stretched one leg over her possessively, my knee settling in between hers.

She moaned softly as I once again found my way to the swell of her enticing womanly flesh. Her dress now sagged off her shoulder; I eased it down further and exposed the lace-edged silk of her chemise and the soft, plump, round treasure that lay beneath.

I could see the tight peak under the thin fabric. My hand closed around her breast as my mouth descended on that tiny bud, taking it between my lips. I could taste her, even through the silk, and it was divine. I marveled that a woman's breast could be so soft yet so hard at the same time. The fabric of her chemise was transparent now with moisture and clung to her skin. I fumbled with the thin ribbon tie at the neckline, trying to push the silk away. I was dimly aware that she tried to move her leg over mine, but her voluminous skirts kept her pinned in place. She grunted in frustration. All this clothing definitely was becoming a hindrance...

I was being transported to dizzying heights as I felt Erica's free hand slide ever so slowly to the front placket of my trousers. I froze as she slowly stroked me through the fabric; I struggled with all my might to keep hold of my senses.

What were we doing? What was I doing? Erica was my friend, and I was abusing her in such an unforgivable manner! I truly am a monster!

I leapt from the bed and ran a hand through my hair.

"We... I... we cannot do this," I said breathlessly.

Erica sat up on the bed. Oh, what a vision she was, with her dress hanging down off her shoulder and a lovely blush borne of passion on her face! But no, I could not think about that, I could not think about how much I wanted her, so I turned away. I leaned against the low dresser with my palms for support as I fought to regain my composure.

"Erik, come back..."

"It is wrong. You are married."

"I don't care."

"I do. Please, you must go," I ground out through gritted teeth.

"You don't mean that."

"I do. You must leave now."

She was silent for a long moment. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. Please, go."

After a long moment, I heard her stand and adjust her clothing. She approached me and gently laid a hand on my back. I stepped away from her and the temptation.

"Erica, please..."

I heard her sigh. I glanced furtively over my shoulder to see her trying to repair her hairdo in the looking glass. A few moments later, her swishing skirts signaled that she was leaving.

As she opened the door, I said quietly to her, "I will perf... I will go onstage tomorrow night. I give you my word."

Without turning around, she nodded and closed the door behind her.

_# # #_

_Erik is a bit concerned that he has not received many reviews for his memoirs. He checks the stats (yes, he is quite computer literate) and knows how many readers he has. Please make him happy (and me, in turn, since he makes my life miserable when he's unhappy) and leave a review. Otherwise, I'm afraid he'll go all Phantom on me, and we don't want that! -Okay, okay, Erik, I'll make you some cookies now!_

_Please review! Thx!_


	7. Chapter 7 Erik's Debut Redux

_**Okay. I admit I've been horribly neglectful in my updates.  
I beg your forgiveness! Pretty please?  
**__**On with the saga...**_

**Erik's Debut Redux**

**April 6  
**I did not know how I would react to seeing Erica this morning, so I chose to forgo breakfast and went straight to the performance hall to rehearse. As I sat down at the piano, however, I saw her emerge from the wings and approach me. She must have been waiting for me there.

I stood as she approached.

"Good morning," I said, not looking up at her. I could not meet her eyes.

"Good morning," she replied. She kept her distance, staying at the far end of the grand piano.

I opened my mouth several times, trying to find the right words. I could not. The silence–and the tension–was unbearable.

Finally, it was Erica who spoke.

"We got a bit carried away," she said quietly.

I finally looked at her. She was clearly distraught. Suddenly my hands seemed to be the most interesting thing in the world, and my gaze fell to them once again.

"So it would seem," I replied.

"Oh, Erik, I am so sorry I forced you into... And the things I said... And what we... Oh, I just don't know how...," she trailed off.

"Do not worry yourself. It is forgotten."

I tried to keep my voice level and my expression passive, but it was much more difficult than I expected it to be.

"Forgotten?" She looked shocked at the word.

I lifted my head to look her directly in the eye. "Yes. I succumbed to a moment of weakness. It is rare, but it happens."

"Your weakness? You speak as if it was your fault."

"It was, Madame. I let my base urges get the better of me. I assure you it will never happen again."

"Do you not think I had a part to play?" she asked with a hint of anger in her voice. One eyebrow rose, a clear sign that she was, shall I say, vexed.

"No, I do not. For even if you instigated it, I should have been able to put a stop to it. And I did not."

"If I remember correctly, you did."

"Not soon enough," I replied, turning slightly away from her. "Regardless, we should forget the entire incident and act as if it never happened. For everyone's sake."

She drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Yes, I believe you are right."

# # # # #

A strange feeling of _déjà vu _crept over me that evening as I dressed for the performance. I buttoned my waistcoat, just as I had the night before, although tonight it was a deep blue rather than gold; I fussed with my cravat until I was satisfied that it was just right; I shrugged into my tailcoat and smoothed down the lapels; I brushed my hair until every last strand was in its proper place. The final touch, my white mask, then settled into its familiar spot on my face.

I had done all of these things last night, and in the same order. What made me think I would be able to go on tonight when I was not able to the night before?

Nevertheless, despite my fears, despite my anxiety, I found myself once more backstage. This time, however, I did summon up the courage that somehow failed me the night before, and my feet carried me out before the waiting audience. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest even above the polite applause. As I reached the piano and turned to fully face my judges for the first time, I did hear a few gasps and whispered comments, but it was not nearly as bad as I feared it would be.

I remembered to bow before I took my seat, and then I began to play.

As it always did, the music swept me away. From the first note I lost all the inhibitions and trepidations that had been strangling me, and the music burst forth from my hands. I forgot about the hundreds of people that were watching me and let the music take me away to another time and place. I was at home here at the piano, making music. If I could ever be happy, this was where it would be.

I was dimly aware of applause after each selection. I would nod in acknowledgment, then proceed into the next piece. I began the performance with Mozart's "Rondo in A Minor." I had heard it played once in the Opera House and liked it very much. Of course, one hearing was all I needed to learn it completely. I then played an original composition titled "Anywhere You Go." It is a short piece, seemingly very soft and romantic, but it has a dark undertone and ends on a very sad note. Even though no ears but mine have ever heard this particular song before, I would venture to guess that most listeners would not catch the darker undercurrents in the music. Next on the programme was Chopin's "Ballade No. 3 in A-Flat Major," a piece for which I feel a particular affinity with its depth and complexity. I like Chopin's music very much for just that reason. I followed that with two more original works, one that I played for Erica and the captain during our voyage (I had never put a title to that piece, so I named it "Independence" in honor of the ship that carried me to my new home), and another of my older compositions titled "Night in Paris." This piece is probably the lightest I had ever written; it was composed one night after one of my solitary walks around the city. For some reason I was in high spirits that evening, and I felt compelled to write upon returning to my home. This little piece was the result. I then performed Lizst's "La Notte," one of his three funeral odes, and I wrapped up the night with my own "Solitude." I poured my heart and soul into this final selection, its melody subtly changing from melancholy to hopeful romanticism to heart-wrenching despair. I had written this before I revealed myself to Christine, when she still thought of me as her Angel of Music and I remained in the shadows, resigned to a life alone and apart from everyone. The music reflected my tortured soul, my empty heart, my continual longing for human contact. Even though I no longer was trapped in that solitude, the music transported me back to that time, and I once again felt the pain, the inner torment that had imprisoned me. The sadness enveloped me like a fog, and it poured out of me in the music.

The final notes of "Solitude" hung in the air. My hands sat motionless on the keys. My head was bowed.

The silence in the hall was deafening.

They did not like me!

Then, suddenly there was thunderous applause. I looked up to see everyone in the hall on their feet, clapping enthusiastically. Some of the ladies were dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs.

This was for me?

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I remembered myself and stood next to the piano and bowed to the audience. This brought an even louder round of applause. It was then that I noticed Erica and John sitting in the front row. Erica turned and picked up something from her seat, then came up the steps to join me onstage as hostess of the evening. She presented me with a single red rose and kissed me on the cheek. That action brought even more applause.

I was dazed. It had to have been simply a coincidence that she chose to give me a single red rose. Surely she could not know the significance this gesture held for me.

After more bows and more applause, the curtain finally closed. I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly and sat back down on the piano bench. Erica put a hand on my shoulder.

"You were wonderful," she said.

"I was adequate."

"Adequate?" Erica exclaimed. "You had half the room in tears! I don't think you have any idea just how talented you really are!"

I looked up at her. "Do you really think they liked me?"

"Oh Erik, I know they did."

I held the rose up to my face and inhaled its heady fragrance. "Thank you for this," I said. "Roses hold a special meaning for me."

She smiled at me. "You're welcome. Now, come with me." Her smile grew into a grin. "Your adoring fans await."

# # # # #

Erica had planned an opening-night reception to take place after last night's performance; due to a certain temperamental performer, it had to be postponed until tonight. The hotel lobby was filled with people, people I did not know; once more I felt quite the outcast.

Erica was the perfect hostess, taking my arm and leading me through the throng, introducing me to Mr. So-and-So and Mr. and Mrs. Such-and-Such. I smiled politely and said as little as possible. A uniformed waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes and I took two, handing one to Erica.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that the lobby piano was being played, very badly I might add, to provide background music for the reception. I would rather have had no music at all than that inferior drivel. I leaned over to mention this to Erica when I felt a rather hard slap on my back. I jumped about a foot into the air from the shock.

"Well, my boy, it seems that my wife knows talent when she sees it!"

I turned to see John Campbell standing next to me, a big smile on his face.

"Well, I..."

"Oh, come now, don't be so modest! I don't know very much about music, but I must say you were outstanding."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

Glancing around the room, I marveled that this was all for me. These people accepted me. They appreciated me. No one was shouting to hunt me down and kill me. It was insane. Insane, but nice.

"Oh, Erik, here's someone you absolutely must meet!"

Erica tugged on my arm. I glanced back at John who shrugged and raised one eyebrow as if to say there's no stopping her when she gets like this. So I was pulled across the room to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody, who were at the very top of Charleston society. They introduced me to their very good friends, who introduced me to their cousins, who introduced me to their next-door neighbors. My head was spinning from all the names I heard and faces I saw during the evening.

At one point I spied Annabelle, standing off by herself by the piano, looking rather pretty in a dark blue gown. At last! Someone I actually knew! Our eyes met, and I was going to go and say hello to her when I was dragged off to meet some more very influential people.

After a time, I found myself standing next to the poster advertising my concert. I gazed at the photograph of me in wonder once more, still amazed at how Monsieur Rossignol managed to make me look so–dare I say it?–handsome.

"That is a remarkable likeness, sir."

The man standing next to me gestured to the photograph.

"Yes, it is," I replied.

"You know, you should sign the poster."

"Sign it?" I asked him incredulously.

Erica once again was by my side. "That is a splendid idea!" she exclaimed.

"I would not wish to ruin the poster."

"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "Your signature would only make it better."

"I do not have a pen."

Several gentlemen immediately reached into their coat pockets and produced writing instruments. I took one. I laid Erica's rose in the easel tray that held the poster and signed my name next to the photograph. Those few people nearby applauded; why this simple action warranted such a response I have no earthly idea.

Two glasses of champagne later I knew I had had enough of socializing with Charleston's elite to last me for a very long time. I found Erica and told her I was leaving. She begged me to stay for a few more minutes, but I told her I was exhausted and needed to rest. Truth be told, I could not stand being around all these "very important" people any longer. My face hurt from smiling so much, and my head hurt from the wine–and the horrible piano music. I slipped away upstairs and fell into bed without bothering to undress.

**April 19  
**My "performance schedule" fell into a routine of four performances per week: Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings, and a Sunday afternoon matinee. I varied the programme every few nights for my own enjoyment as well as for the audience, since many people told me they came back time and again. I was pleased to learn that nearly every performance was sold out.

Something very strange began happening after that first performance, when Erica presented me with the lone red rose. After the next few concerts, red roses mysteriously began to appear in the lobby next to my concert poster. At first, only a few turned up in the little easel tray where I inadvertently left Erica's flower during the reception, but soon dozens spilled onto the floor around the entrance to the performance hall. Soon just leaving them outside the performance hall was not enough–the flowers were tossed at me from the audience as I took my final bows.

"It seems as though you have quite a few admirers," John said to me one evening at dinner.

"I doubt that very much," I retorted.

"Have you seen the lobby lately, man? It is full of red roses, all of them left for you!"

I had indeed been through the lobby earlier that afternoon, and it was literally awash in red: nearly every available surface contained vases filled with the fragrant flowers. The desk clerk told me that as soon as they collected an armload and put them in water, more of them seemed to magically appear.

"John is right, Erik," Erica chimed in. "The ladies love you."

I turned to glare at her. She had a sly smirk on her face. "We just might get you married off yet!"

Timothy, who had been quietly eating his dinner up to this point, perked up at this remark. "Mr. Erik is getting married?"

I looked across the table at the six-year-old boy. "No, Mr. Erik is _not_ getting married," I said to him as I turned back to pointedly glower at his mother.

**April 22  
**I must admit, however, that due to my newfound... celebrity... I am no longer apprehensive about venturing out into the city alone. I have on occasion taken an afternoon stroll, enjoying the warm Southern sunshine, admiring the architecture (I do not know if I will ever get used to seeing such stately homes painted in bright pastel colours, but they certainly are enjoyable to look at), and I have even been known to converse with passers-by from time to time. I do receive the occasional sidelong glance, but for the most part the citizens of this fair city have accepted me and will stop to chat or inquire about my next concert date.

I have even acquired, or so I have heard through rumours, a nickname: "The Masked Musician." Smiling inwardly when I first heard the name, I surmised it was an improvement over my previous moniker of "Opera Ghost."

I had a particular purpose to my afternoon stroll today. I had been to Monsieur Rossignol's–rather, Mr. Ross'–photography studio. The man kept me for nearly two hours, asking endless questions about France and life in Paris. I humoured him by answering his inquiries the best I could; after all, I am not the most authoritative expert on life in Paris. Aboveground, that is.

As I left his shop, I noticed that dusk was swiftly approaching. No more than a block separated me from the studio when I heard a high-pitched cry somewhere nearby. It was a woman's voice, filled with fear. I surveyed the area to try to find this lady in distress, and I saw some movement in a narrow alley across the street.

Without another thought, I rushed to the scene. Sure enough, two men were attacking a young woman. One of the ruffians was holding her against the brick wall while the other was touching her in very inappropriate ways. Both were leering at her. The poor woman was crying and struggling to break free of their grasp. As I got closer, however, I was horrified to see that it was not just any young woman: it was Theresa, young Timothy's governess!

How dare those ruffians attack that sweet, shy girl!

And, knowing of her disposition, I knew that she must be paralyzed with fright in her present predicament.

In an instant I was upon the scene, my hand upon the throat of the man who dared touch the innocent girl.

"I suggest you leave the lady alone," I said in a low voice.

"I suggest you let us have our fun and go find a whore of your own," he retorted without even taking his eyes off Theresa.

I heard the poor girl whimper at the ruffian's remark.

Without another thought, my hand tightened around his throat. He cried out in surprise as he grasped my hand, trying to break free from my hold. I slammed his body against the opposite wall of the alley, and I heard the sickening crack of his skull as it met the bricks. His body went limp in my hands. I released him, and he fell in a heap on the ground. I turned to settle accounts with the other man, the one who had held Theresa up against the wall, but the cowardly blackguard had already run away.

Theresa sank to the ground in tears, covering her face with her hands, her body shaking uncontrollably with great sobs. I knelt down beside her.

"Theresa, are you all right? Did they hurt you?" I asked her.

As she shook her head in response, I heard footsteps approaching. Mr. Ross appeared a few seconds later around the corner.

"Oh my goodness! What happened here?" he asked, wringing his hands.

"The lady was attacked," I said to him. "Fortunately I was able to stop it before..."

I didn't finish the sentence, but Mr. Ross got my meaning.

"Oh, yes... I understand." He caught sight of the man lying motionless a few feet away. "I must summon the police."

"No. No police."

"But, sir, the man could be dead. We must."

I thought for a moment. I was no longer the Opera Ghost. I had to live as a law-abiding citizen. I acted in the best interests of a lady in distress. What was done was justified.

I sighed and looked up at him. "If you must."

Mr. Ross turned and disappeared around the corner. I focused my attention on the trembling girl next to me.

"Theresa, everything will be all right. It is over now."

She sobbed louder and threw her arms around me, searching for reassurance that my words were true. I knelt there, in the filthy alley, holding and comforting this traumatized girl, while the man who attacked her was lying not ten feet away from us. He had not moved or uttered a sound in all this time.

"My dear, may I ask what you were doing out by yourself at this late hour?"

Her head remained buried in my chest as she spoke between sobs. I could barely understand her muffled words. "Mrs. Campbell... sent me... druggist... Timothy... sick..."

I glanced over to the corner, where those ruffians must have grabbed her, and lying alongside her reticule was a small brown paper sack. The contents of the bag had more than likely broken, as the bag was stained dark with some sort of liquid.

I had not been aware that Timothy was ill; no one had informed me of this news. I was about to ask Theresa about the nature of his illness when I heard footsteps approaching.

Two police officers appeared in the alley, followed by a very distraught Mr. Ross.

"What do we have here, then?" the first officer said upon seeing me with Theresa.

I looked up at the man and said to him, "The lady was viciously attacked by two men. That one..." and with that I nodded my head in the direction of the criminal lying motionless across from us, "...and another who escaped."

The second policeman knelt by the body, avoiding the large pool of blood around the head. He felt for a pulse, then looked up at his partner and shook his head in the negative.

"I see," said the policeman. "And where do you fit in, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

"I just happened by. If I had not, who knows what they might have done..."

The officer eyed me skeptically. "You ain't from around here, are you?"

I was beginning to lose my patience with this imbecile. I gently disentangled Theresa's arms from around my neck and stood to my full height, which was about eight inches taller than this so-called man of the law. He immediately took a step back from me, an action that I did not fail to notice. I smiled to myself.

"No, I am not, Monsieur. My name is Erik Destler. I am newly arrived from France. I am currently residing at the Carolinian Hotel, where I also work. This young woman works as a governess for the Campbells, who own the hotel."

"Ain't you the one they call 'The Masked Musician'? I've heard about you," he said.

"I do not like that name, but yes. I am he. Do you have any more questions?" I demanded.

The officer cleared his throat nervously. "Yes, just one."

I glared at him. "Well?"

"How did he... how did he get like that?" he asked, gesturing to the man on the ground.

"I shoved him against the wall. If I had not, he and his accomplice would have done unspeakable things to Mademoiselle Theresa. I would not stand for that."

I picked up Theresa's purse and my package, then knelt back down in front of the sobbing girl.

"If that is all, monsieur, I believe I should take the mademoiselle home so she can get some rest."

"Oh, of course," the policeman replied. "We can reach both of you at the Carolinian?"

"_Naturellement_," I said as I picked up Theresa in my arms.

"And, Miss, what is your last name?"

Theresa looked up at the officer with a tear-stained face. "S-s-simpson, sir."

# # # # #

Mademoiselle Theresa Simpson may be a tiny slip of a girl, but carrying her several blocks through the city still proved to be a very taxing endeavor. By the time we finally reached the Carolinian, I was gasping for air. I laid Theresa down on one of the upholstered sofas in the lobby and shouted at the first person I saw. For better or worse, that person was Annabelle, who had been dusting the furniture.

"Go fetch Madame Campbell, quickly!"

Annabelle sidled over to where Theresa lay.

"Is she sick?" she asked, gaping at the still form of the other girl.

"No, she is not sick, she's been hurt. Just go. Quickly!"

After taking one more peek at the motionless Theresa, Annabelle scurried off in search of her employer. I kneeled down next to the poor girl as she lay on the sofa.

"Everything will be all right, I promise you," I whispered to her.

She turned her head to look at me with frightened eyes. I nodded at her with as earnest a face as I could muster. Her tiny little nose wrinkled up just then, and then she let out a terrific sneeze! And then another one, and still another one. She looked at me helplessly with watery eyes and then meekly pointed to the vase of roses just inches from her head on the side table.

"Would someone please remove these blasted flowers?" I called out to no one in particular. "The mademoiselle is allergic!"

As if to validate my claim, Theresa sneezed twice more.

The desk clerk bustled over and made a big show of removing the arrangements that were near us. I think they found a way to multiply: there were containers of the flowers everywhere I looked, and the poor man had quite a time finding places for the vases that he removed from our presence.

It was at this time that Erica came running into the room.

"Oh, my heavens! What happened?"

She knelt down next to me, taking Theresa's hands in hers and searching my face for answers.

I answered her quietly, trying to avoid the ears of the others in the lobby.

"She was attacked by two hooligans, Madame. I was fortunate to have come upon them before... well, before anything truly terrible actually happened."

"Oh, my God! Theresa, are you all right?" Erica cried, searching her for obvious wounds.

"I... I am fine," she whispered. "I lost the medicine."

"Oh, child, don't you worry about that!" Erica patted Theresa's hands.

"Madame, I believe we should get her upstairs where she can rest," I suggested.

"Oh, yes, that is an excellent idea."

I scooped Theresa once more into my arms and followed Erica to the family's apartment on the second floor.

# # # # #

"So, Timothy, I hear you are not feeling well," I said to my young companion.

He looked up at me with tired eyes from under the blankets of his bed. "No, I do not," he said quietly.

He certainly was not the spirited, inquisitive boy I had come to know. I turned to John who had been sitting next to him, reading him a story. "What are his symptoms?"

"He has a cough, a sore throat, a fever and a headache," John said.

"And what was it that Theresa bought from the druggist?"

"I'm not sure. Erica sent her to fetch a patent medicine of some sort."

"No, no, that will not do. That will not do at all," I said. "Those medicines are nearly all alcohol mixed with who knows what other dangerous ingredients and can cause more harm than good. Especially in one so young. What this young man needs is some hot tea with honey, that will soothe his throat and help break his fever, and lots of fluids. Bedrest for a day or two will put him to rights. None of that dreadful snake oil."

Erica stepped in the room during my tirade on the evils of patent medicine. "I have heard that they work wonders for illness."

"Madame, I know a little something about the healing arts, and Timothy will do very well with the regimen I have prescribed. If you like, you can even add a little mint to the tea and honey. But please, none of that appalling patent medicine!"

She looked unconvinced, but grudgingly agreed.

"How is Theresa?"

"She is sleeping. What a terrible ordeal to go through!"

"Yes," I agreed. "It was fortunate that I happened by."

"What of the two men?" she asked.

I glanced over to the boy, not wanting him to hear the details of this incident. Thankfully, he had fallen asleep.

"I pulled one of them away from Mademoiselle Theresa, and he hit his head on the alley wall. He is dead. The other one ran away."

Erica clasped her hands and held them to her chest as she gasped in shock. "Oh, dear Lord, you saved her life!"

"I don't know about that..."

"Yes, you did! And, even if you did not, you certainly saved her virtue! Oh, Erik, you are a hero!"

I looked solemnly at Erica.

"I killed a man, Madame. I am no hero."


	8. Chapter 8 Annabelle

**Annabelle**

[draft of a letter tucked between journal pages]

_April 23_

_My dear friend Antoinette-_

_Please accept my sincerest apologies for waiting so long to write to you. You must think I perished on my voyage to America - I nearly did, being taken violently ill for several days; many times during my illness I wished for Death to take me and relieve me of my misery. I did recover, thankfully, and I now am a productive member of society in Charleston, South Carolina, United States of America._

_I met a great lady and her young son on the voyage, a Madame Campbell, who owns a hotel in Charleston with her husband. I live there, at the Carolinian, where I also work, performing music in the hotel's concert hall. Can you believe it? - me, the recluse, performing for an audience, four times a week! The good people of this town seem to have accepted me and even have taken to calling me "The Masked Musician." Perhaps they think me eccentric, I do not know, but you can certainly understand how confounded I am at this strange turn of events._

_I have even been known to take the occasional afternoon stroll in town. Yes, you read that correctly. I do go out in the daytime. I enjoy the sunshine. I speak to people. I do my shopping. I live like every other normal person._

_Now, Antoinette, cease your weeping this instant. Your tears will smear the ink and you won't be able to read the rest of my letter!_

_One tragic incident has marred my otherwise bright existence here. I rescued the Campbells' governess, a young girl named Theresa, from two men intent to do her harm. I pulled one of the men off of her, and he hit his head against a wall as I pushed him away. His skull cracked, and he died. I took another life, Antoinette, but it was only to save the virtue of an innocent girl in peril. I did not run afterward, however; I remained at the scene of the crime and faced the police and then took the poor girl home._

_So it would seem that I have begun a new life, just as you wished. Much of my life back in France seems more like a dream to me now, at any rate; a nightmare, really. The memories grow dimmer with each passing day. The only memories of my old life that I care to keep are those of you and your kindness._

_I hope that you and young Meg are doing well. Is the restoration of the Opera House proceeding as planned? Even though I am not there, those two imbeciles still must be kept in line; I am relying on you to be my eyes and ears in my absence. Be firm with them; do not let those pompous junk dealers ruin my beautiful building!_

_Enclosed with this letter is a copy of the first photograph ever taken of me. Madame Campbell insisted on having one taken to advertise my concerts. I tried to dissuade her, but she can be extremely obstinate - in many ways she reminds me of you. I hope you will keep it as a remembrance of our friendship._

_Again, my sincerest good wishes for you and little Meg. If you wish, you may write to me in care of the Carolinian Hotel in Charleston._

_I am, as always,_

_Your dear friend_

_Erik_

**April 27**

I have never been more angry at any one person in my entire life as I was today. And, for me, that is saying quite a lot. My hand still shakes with anger as I write this entry.

The day began rather uneventfully, as most of my days of late had begun.

But, no, I must backtrack the story to yesterday.

Erica caught up with me in the hotel lobby after my Saturday evening performance.

"Erik, I have a favor to ask of you," she began tentatively.

I had never seen Erica look nervous before; she was pale and was worrying a small lace handkerchief in her hands.

"Of course, my friend, all you have to do is ask," I said to her.

Erica and John have done so much for me; I knew there was no way I could ever repay them properly. I will forever be in their debt.

"You remember Annabelle..."

"Yes, of course."

"She came to me earlier today and told me that her mother is very ill. She asked for some time off to return to her home for a visit."

I was puzzled. I had no idea how this could possibly have anything to do with me.

"Pardon me, but what..."

"Erik, she cannot travel alone. It is a long journey. I takes half a day to get there. Would you accompany her?"

This was the last thing I expected Erica to ask of me. I barely knew the girl, and I was to ride with her - just her and me - on a journey to her family's home? This was most unseemly.

"Erica, I do not think it would be proper for me to..."

"It would not be safe for her to travel alone, or with another woman," she interjected. "When we spoke about it, I mentioned your name, and she agreed to having you as her chaperone."

"But I do not even know the girl."

"Yes, I realize that, but she trusts you because I trust you. Please, Erik. She has no one else to turn to."

I knew that further arguments would be futile, so I acquiesced.

"When does she wish to leave?" I asked with a sigh.

"Tomorrow morning, early. I have offered one of the hotel's smaller carriages."

I nodded.

Erica put her hand on my arm and looked up into my face with tearful eyes.

"Thank you, Erik."

# # # # #

And so, at 7 a.m., I waited for Annabelle in the lobby. A quick look outside confirmed that the buggy was ready and waiting, but where was the young woman?

If she was so anxious to see her ailing mother, could she not at least be punctual? I was beginning to become annoyed at her tardiness.

I waited at least fifteen minutes for her to arrive. When she finally did appear downstairs, she smiled, breezed past me and went outside to the carriage.

No word of apology for her lateness was offered.

I followed her outside and climbed in the carriage, leaving her standing in the street.

She glared up at me with a look of consternation as I took up the reins.

"A gentleman helps a lady into a carriage," she said with a touch of vexation in her voice.

"Yes, but a lady also apologises to a gentleman for her tardiness," I retorted without even affording her a glance.

She huffed and "Well, I never!" and even stamped her foot once or twice, but when she saw that I wasn't going to back down, she - rather ungracefully - got in of her own accord. From her ungainly movements, I concluded that this girl obviously had never studied dance.

I noticed that she placed a small carpetbag at her feet. I thought nothing of it, assuming that she was carrying some items home for her family.

With a swish of the reins, we finally were off.

The journey itself was uneventful, save for Annabelle's constant pratter; I do not think she was quiet for two minutes together for the entire journey. My head was throbbing from the sheer volume of words. I said little, save for an occasional "I see" or "Is that so?" that I threw into the conversation (if you can call her incessant soliloquy a conversation) at random intervals. I needn't have bothered; she kept on talking and talking as if I hadn't spoken at all.

I just sat and guided the two horses on our way, trying to enjoy the South Carolina countryside through all the noise. It was beautiful, to be sure - stately trees, covered in hanging moss, huge expanses of grassy fields, the occasional plantation house. I heard the music of the insects and birds. In fact, if it hadn't been for Annabelle, it would have been the perfect outing on the perfect day.

Erica was correct in that it took half a day to reach Annabelle's home. It was nearly noon by the time we pulled the buggy up in front of the house, a large home that definitely had seen better days.

Annabelle didn't wait for the coach to come to a complete stop before she bounded out and ran up the steps to the front door, calling "Mama! Papa!" I continued on to the barn to settle the horses, letting Annabelle have some private time with her family.

Truth be told, I would rather have spent the entire time out in the barn. I felt like an intruder, an interloper, an unwanted guest. I was there only as a driver, and I am sure they would not want me barging in on their reunion with their daughter.

# # # # #

I spent as much time in the barn with the horses as I possibly could.

Truth be told, I had no desire to go inside that house at all. If the mother was as sick as Erica said she was, she could very well be contagious. If not, it was highly possible that the rest of Annabelle's family was just as verbose as she was, and that thought truly frightened me.

But, after I saw to the horses, made sure that they were fed and watered and secured in their stalls, I could fabricate no more excuses for staying away. I had to go in. With leaden steps I made my way over to the house.

# # # # #

Annabelle rushed through the front door just as I reached the first step up to the veranda.

"There you are! Where have you been? My parents have been asking for you! I thought you had wandered off and gotten lost or something! Come on in and meet everybody!" She spoke without ever taking a breath, securing a tight grip on my arm and rushing me into the house.

The moment I entered the house I was overtaken with the pungent aroma of food; suffice to say that my appetite was not whetted by the odour.

Annabelle, still tugging at my arm, pulled me into the parlor where several people sat on shabby, threadbare furniture: an older couple, a younger couple (the woman visibly with child), and a gawky adolescent boy.

"Mama, Papa, this is Monsieur Erik Destler. Erik, this is my father, Gabriel Gustin, and my mother, Elizabeth, and my sister and her husband, Sarabeth and Joshua, and that little imp over there is my little brother James."

All in the room nodded as they were introduced, and the boy James stared openly at my mask. The adults didn't seem to be bothered by it–almost as if they knew about it. Curious.

I nodded to the room's inhabitants, then I looked in confusion at Annabelle's mother. "Forgive me, Madame, but I understood that you were quite ill."

"Ill? Why no, I am not ill. Whatever gave you that–oh, yes, in my last letter to Annabelle, I mentioned that I had a slight cold, but I am quite over that now."

I could feel Annabelle stiffen at my side. I looked down at her. She knew she had been caught in a lie and tried to smile her way out of it, but it was a half-hearted smile at best. It didn't work on me.

I turned back to the family.

"If you would excuse us, the mademoiselle and I have something to discuss."

I took Annabelle by the arm and ushered her outside to the veranda. I heard her sister say something about a "lover's quarrel," but I assumed she was joking and decided to ignore it.

As we stepped outside, she wrenched free from my grasp. "You're hurting me," she whined.

"You lied to me," I hissed at her.

"I did not," she shot back. "She was sick, but now she's not."

She glanced nervously over to the window. I followed her eyes and saw two faces, belonging to her sister Sarabeth and her brother James, behind the lace curtains. Both were intently watching us.

"Come," I said. I took her arm, more gently this time, and led her down the path towards the barn.

Halfway there, she stopped.

"Why are you so mad at me?" she demanded, wrenching free from my grasp.

"I do not like deception."

"I wanted to see my parents. I haven't been able to come home for many months, and I miss them. So I told a little white lie to Mrs. Campbell. I told her my mother was sick so I could come home. It was her idea for you to come with me. I'm sorry I lied..."

And they knew about me," I accused. "No one meeting me for the first time is as genial towards me as they were." My hand automatically rose to my face, unconsciously ensuring that my mask was still securely in place.

"I may have mentioned you in my last letter..."

Her head was down, but I could tell that the tears were ready to fall.

"I do not like deception," I repeated. "Do not do it again."

"All right," she whispered as she looked up at me timidly. "Let's go back inside. I think supper will be ready soon."

_Wonderful. Just wonderful._ "Come." I offered her my arm.

# # # # #

"So, young man, why don't we step inside the parlor so we can talk for a few minutes away from the womenfolk?"

The meal Mme. Gustin had prepared was filling if nothing else, and now her husband wished to top it off with what I was sure would be a less-than-adequate cigar. As I followed him into the room, I noticed that his once-fine clothes now hung on him, indicating that he once had been a robust and vital man, now broken and merely subsisting in the world that had destroyed him.

Most would feel pity for Gustin and his family, but after all I have suffered in my life, pity does not come easily.

He slid the doors closed behind us and gestured for me to sit in one of the old, cracking leather chairs that sat near the fireplace. Even though it was April, out in the country the air was cooler, and the fire helped to take the chill out of the room.

After we completed the ritual of lighting the cigars (and I managed to keep from gagging at the foul taste of the horrid thing), Gustin finally sat back and regarded me through the cloud of smoke.

"You are a musician, I hear?"

"_Oui_ – yes, that is correct," I answered, forcing myself to take another puff on the thing he had the audacity to call a cigar.

"So you earn a decent living then, I take it?" he inquired.

"Decent enough," I replied warily. I wondered where this line of questioning was leading. Did he want to borrow money from me?

"And you compose as well, or so Annabelle tells me. That brings in more money."

"When the piece sells, then yes, it does."

Now I was really getting nervous.

"And what of your family?" he leaned forward in his chair as he asked.

I blinked. "My family?"

"Yes, is your family living?"

"Why would you possibly want to know…"

"Forgive me, I am just making conversation." He sat back and puffed more putrid smoke into the air.

I watched him for a long moment, trying to discover exactly what he was after. I was reasonably certain by then that he didn't want money from me, but what did he want? I couldn't figure it out.

Through the stifling haze that quickly filled the room, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A quick glance revealed someone pacing back and forth in front of the drawing room doors, but I could not make out exactly who it was through the frosted glass. I suspected it was Annabelle.

"No, please forgive me. I should not have become so cross." I sighed heavily. "I have no family."

"I am very sorry to hear that, my good friend. I hope you can someday come to think of us as your family."

_Just as soon as people can board big metal ships and fly through the air_, I thought wryly to myself. "That is very kind," I said to him, forcing a smile.

By this time I had had just about enough of that horrific cigar, so I set it down in the ashtray. "Forgive me, but I am not much of a smoker. I believe it is giving me a headache."

"Oh, not at all," he said with a smile.

"Well, my boy, even for a Frenchie, you seem like a right honorable young man. You have a job, good prospects, an education. I think you will do quite nicely. I give you my blessing."

Gustin rose from his chair and approached me, patting me on the shoulder with one of his bony, clammy hands. I turned in my seat to look up at him.

"I'll do? What do you mean?"

"Why, for Annabelle, of course! I give you my blessing to marry her!"

The doors flew open, and Annabelle rushed in, hugging her father tightly.

"Oh, thank you, Papa!" she exclaimed, kissing him on the cheek.

I stood up, outraged.

"Marry her!" I bellowed.

Gustin looked at me in confusion.

"Why yes, isn't that why you came here today? To ask for her hand?"

By now all the members of the Gustin family had converged in the parlor and were staring at me.

"No, it is not! I brought her here because I thought her mother was gravely ill." I struggled to keep my composure amidst all this madness. "I have no intention of marrying anyone!"

Annabelle's face fell.

"Papa,..." she began.

"Now look here," Gustin blustered. "You spend all day alone with my daughter, doing God knows what, and now you say you will not marry her?"

I could not believe the turn of events in so short a time. If it had not been so infuriating, I would have laughed out loud!

"Sir, I can guarantee you that your daughter's... _integrity_... is intact. And I will _not _be bullied into marriage. By you or anyone!"

As I stormed out of the house, I could hear Annabelle's wailing and the high-pitched caterwauling of the rest of the family.

Subjecting myself to the likes of _that_ family for the rest of my life?

Preposterous.

I hitched up the horses to the buggy and led them out of the barn. Gustin stopped me, grasping me by the arm as I clambered up into the carriage.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

I wrenched my arm from his grip.

"Back to Charleston. Your daughter can find her own way back, if she chooses to show her face there again."

With that, I snapped the reins and was off.


End file.
